Grow old along with me?
The worst is yet to be
The aches and pains from which the quarrels are made;
Our bile grows worse each year
We pass the pain to those held dear,
Once wife, now nurse, with thinning sympathy.
Gary doesn’t deal well with illness. Sympathy doesn’t make him feel better, what I think makes him feel better is expelling the venom. I’m always going to be younger, and therefore healthier, and therefore always the nurse and always the target.
That works fine if I’m not filled with bile myself. How do two sickly people stay married? Do they?
P. S. I have a particular hatred today for Rabbi Abraham ben Meir Ibn Ezra and the poem that bears his because my left foot, the best foot of all my feet, is still jacked up by its encounter with the Grow Old Along With Me sundial.