When at last you see that I am growing frail, that my hands tremble as I fasten the buttons on my coat and that at dinner I might drop a spoon or spill a bit of tea, I ask you only one thing: do not be cross, be gentle with me. Remember how, in those early years, I taught you everything with patience, when you could not yet hold a spoon or dress yourself without my help. If I keep repeating the same story, do not cut me offjust listen.
Do you recall how you would beg me to tell the same bedtime tale over and over, curling your arms around my neck until sleep claimed you? And when I occasionally refused a bath, do not chide me; think of the little adventures I spun to lure you into the tub, for you stubbornly refused to step in. If I am slow with the new gadgetsstruggling with a mobile phone or a televisiondo not laugh at my clumsiness. Give me a moments grace.
Remember how I showed you the first letters, how we counted apples together and wrote numbers while I fought off exhaustion. If words slip from my mind or thoughts scatter, be patient and do not grow angry. What matters to me is not the exact words I utter, but that you are there, listening, never turning away.
When my legs grow weak and I can no longer walk beside you, do not think me a burden. Simply offer your hand, as I once offered mine when you took your first steps across the garden of our Yorkshire cottage. One day you will understand that, despite my errors, I have always wanted only the best for you. Every step I took, every choice I made, was an attempt to smooth the road ahead of you more than my own.
Grant me a little of your time, a pinch of patience. Let me lean on your shoulder, just as you once hid behind mine when pain or fear took hold. I love you, dear Blythe. I love you, dear Alistair. And I pray for you botheven when you no longer notice it.
