I was born in Petites in March, 1923, and along with my mother and father and 8 brothers and sisters, we migrated to Toronto. Dad lived to 95 years of age and Mom to 92. They loved company and just talking to folk. I wrote this poem a few years ago and thought you might like to print it in your magazine. Sadly, Petites was shut down some years ago and Peter Mansbridge and the CBC did a programme on it.

Old Age is Only Relative After All
 
When my loving father turned eighty six
I sat down beside him for a chat.
He asked, "What will I do when I am old?"
Gee, how could I respond to that?
 
No way would I ever offend him
By showing any sign of surprise.
I must handle this with diplomacy
I didn't want to see any hurt in his eyes.
 
It is polite to respect one's elders,
That is something I had always been told.
So I took a deep breath and I answered,
"No insult intended, but isn't eighty six old?"
 
"Perhaps to you, because you are young
You see this tired, greying shell
.But inside of me there is still a young man,
It is something to remember well."
 
Suddenly here I am at age eighty six years,
In the mirror it's an old lady I see.
Ah, but inside I'm still a young girl
Just like my father said there would be.   Submitted By: NULL