With envy I gaze through rheumy eyes upon the young father whose children clasp Daddy's legs and beg him play. I am planted all day long upon my park bench, sinewy roots sinking deep down, in and around the splintery slats. Smiling and eager to please, Daddy does their silly bidding. Screaming with glee, the little ones pull him down, and in a heap he willingly tumbles at their precious feet.
Twenty years ago I had the same opportunities but refused to participate in childish goings-on. Grass-stained trousers and twigs in the hair were not for this aesthete who, by the happenstance of a marital union, sired offspring. Let the nanny deal with the effects of Nature ground into textiles and pink skin. Mother and Father are about, caring for matters of importance.
Existence now is incarceration with my constant companions, Regret and Cry of the heart. Mother is dead, Jason, my son, gone. He never visits. I am here in my usual spot only through the agency of my male nurse. He is competent but shows no interest beyond doing his job. He is well paid. He displays no willingness to be a son.