Poetry

To the Elders

We miss you

In the wrinkles, running like rivers around your eyes, I can see wisdom in each groove, each mark etched by time.

But now I also see confusion about this new paradigm.

Aren’t our elders the keepers of wisdom?

They are the prism through which we view the world.

They remember the tales and the collective stories.

But now it is mandatory that they be locked away, kept from the fray of this dystopian world.

And I worry that we’re losing your voice.

We have no choice but to protect you, but some moments in life are precious and few, like enfolding a grandchild in your tender arms, letting them sink into the soft warm folds of your weathered skin.

There are places you’ve been, worlds beyond time, echoes of the past which linger and twine through fading pages of mystery.

Your memories shape us, hold us and mold us into a cohesive breathing, society of souls.

And I want you to know that we miss you.

This poem is for my mother (who lives in a nursing home) and for my neighbor, Ed (who is 82 and lives alone — I get to talk to him from my balcony most evenings when he’s on his evening walk) and for another neighbor and friend, Bev (who is not “elder” yet, but of the age of risk, and who is normally so active, but now has to take yoga online and confines herself to walks up and down the street) and to all of the other “elders” out there who are isolating right now. We miss you.

You might also enjoy:

Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, neurophilosopher, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies). Erika is also an editor for Dharma Talk.

Photos and story © Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.