Growing Old

I’ve noticed that both my husband and I are growing more adept at pretending not to notice when things have fallen on the floor.  We can walk right over a pen or pencil the Cherub has let fall to the ground and make it look smooth and blissfully unaware.  Nobody would suspect us of seeing the thing perfectly well and hoping the other one will get around to picking it up first.

I even bought myself one of those hand picker-upper things a while ago.  It’s the only thing that makes picking up after the grandchildren have gone home even possible.  The lower back just sobs in misery and discouragement at having to bend over and pick something up even once, let alone repeatedly.  The only problem is it isn’t really convenient to tote around the house so it’s great for planned pick-ups, but less useful for those little things that one randomly drops.

A few weeks ago we were both in the kitchen when a can or box of something rolled out of the pantry and onto the floor.  We were caught.  We saw it and heard it happen and we each saw the other register this catatrophe.  We looked at the thing on the floor.  We looked at each other.  Then one of us said, “The ground is so much further away than it used to be, isn’t it?”

We agreed.  I think it’s found a new home.

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