They came to the cemetery with flowers for the graves.
The were children again, in spite of their age.
Dad didn’t say much, placed the flowers by her name.
He read the stone fondly, a mother’s son once again.
His hand always shakes, he has a shuffling walk
But there was a smile on his face and he seemed deep in thought.
Mom said, “Here they are, my mother and my father.”
She set down each plant, the dutiful daughter.
She’s just a big kid who is now getting old,
Trying to make them happy, to honor their souls.
What did their parents think of them then?
What memories remain with their aging children?