The Weights And Counterpoises Of The Clock Of Life

While driving to work, I noticed a sign draped over a hospital’s entrance that read, “Thanksgiving is for giving thanks.” Ho-hum, I thought. Far from being in a thankful mood, I was dejected, unhappy, wallowing in self-pity, due primarily to my wife’s failing health, which required me to become what I was never meant to be: a nurse. The struggle was futile, I knew; her days were numbered. Death would soon take her, ending our long marriage. While waiting for a signal light to change, I glanced again at the sign and grunted disapprovingly. Then I saw a family in the parking lot, loading a child into a van. Imprisoned for life in a wheelchair, the boy’s legs were little more than fleshless bones, his arms flailed uncontrollably, his head weaved and bobbed, saliva dripped from his chin, and his eyes were fixed in a hopeless stare.

---

Support Canada Free Press

---