Sometimes youll notice that I have grown old, that my hands tremble when I button my coat, that at tea I might drop the spoon or spill a little tea upon myself. I ask you, please, not to be cross, to treat me kindly. Remember how I once patiently taught you everything, back when you could not yet hold a spoon or dress yourself without help.
If I keep repeating the same story, do not cut me off; simply listen. Do you recall how you would beg me to tell the bedtime tale over and over until you fell asleep in my arms? And when I sometimes refuse to bathe, do not reproach me; think of the little fictions I invented to lure you into the bath when you stubbornly refused to go in.
Should I falter with new gadgets, cannot manage the telephone or the telly with speed, please spare a laugh and give me a moment. Remember how I taught you to write your first letters, how we counted apples together and pieced together numbers while I was barely holding on against fatigue.
If I forget a word or lose my train of thought, be patient and do not lose your temper. What matters to me is not the exact phrasing, but that you are near, that you hear me and do not turn away. When my legs grow weak and I can no longer walk beside you, do not think I have become a burden; just extend your hand, as I did when you took your first steps across the garden at our cottage in Yorkshire.
One day you will understand that, despite every slip and mistake, I have always wanted only the very best for you. Every step I took, every decision I made, was an attempt to smooth the road ahead of you more than the one I walked myself. Grant me a little of your time, a pinch of patience. Allow me to lean on your shoulder, just as you once hid behind mine when you were hurt or frightened.
I love you, my dear Harriet. I love you, my dear Edward, and I pray for you both, even when you no longer seem to notice.
