House

So this is it. Starting this weekend, that's tomorrow, we move "B" into a senior living facility. My house is a disaster. "B" is beside herself. She's a little embarassed with her belongs stewn about, out in the open being sorted and stacked. I have to go through each piece of paper to make sure nothing important is "sandwitched" in. I found insurance policies in between Haband (you know these ads from the Sunday paper) offers. Pictures of "S", "T" and "L" I've never seen before. But this is not what this post is about.

As I poured through B's papers (I threw away 8 grocery bags of paper waste), frustrated, tired and overwhelmed in 90+ heat with humidity so high it made my chest heavy breathing I found this:

You tell me that I'm getting old;
I tell you that's not so.
The "house" I live in is worn out,
And that, of course, I know
It's been in use a long, long while;
It's weathered many a gale,
I'm really not surprised you think
It is getting somewhat frail.

The color's changing on the roof;
The windows getting dim,
The walls a bit transparent
And looking rather thin.
The foundation's not so steady
As once it used to be
My "house" is getting shaky,
But my "house" isn't me.

My few short years can't make me old;
I feel I'm in my youth.
Eternity lies just ahead,
A life of joy and truth.
I'm going to live forever there;
Life will go on-It's grand.
You tell me I am getting old?
You just don't understand.

The dweller in my little "house"
Is young and bright and gay,
Just starting on a life to last
Throughout eternal day.
You only see the outside,
Which is all that most folks see.
You tell me that I am getting old?
You've mixed my "house" with me.
author unknown

My load was lifted.
Love to all.