The Shrinking

He used to reach the gutters with his arms

and pull the wet leaves out like they were fluff.

Now he’s defeated by the kitchen alarms

and the lids on jars are suddenly too tough.

I saw his wrists shaking—no, it was a vibration

against the glass. He couldn’t make it turn.

He stood there in a state of hesitation,

a lesson I am terrified to learn.

His cardigan is drooping off his frame

like it belongs to a man who’s already gone.

I reached above him, feeling a sudden shame,

and twisted the seal. We both just stood on

the linoleum tiles. I’m taller than him now.

I don't know when it happened. Or why. Or how.