His frail knees don't seem to take him as far as they used to.
Barely making it to the bathroom sink, he drinks his water with a little less pride than yesterday.
Drives himself to the gym.
Can't ride his bicycle anymore.
Opening doors take more effort as the morning progresses.
I sit next to him on the leg machines.
He is frustrated.
Can't get the settings the way he wants them.
I know how to fix it.
But I do nothing.
He moves to the weights.
With the mirrors on the walls.
He sits with the two 25 pound barbells laying on the floor on each side of his feet.
And he's staring.
Into the aged mask staring back at him.
His eyes are slowly sinking into the back of his head.
He continues starting for several minutes.
I imagine he's wondering where his life has gone.
Watching all these young boys lifting a hundred pounds over their heads.
Where did that boy go?
His hands have arthuritis.
He can't work anymore.
He laid his hammer down long ago.
He can't get on his knees to lay brick walkways anymore
because his fragile knees may shatter.
All he does is watch.
My heart fills up with compassion.
And nudges me to do something.
Anything.
To whisper in his ear that
wisdom is more powerful than physical strength.
And that he could teach those boys more things than they could speak of.
That bodies are only temporary.
As we break down everyday, we never truly die if we speak of what we believe.
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