Life is Short - Autobiography as Haiku

My toddler struggles as she spreads the cream cheese on her bagel. Her powerful hands lack an adult’s technical refinement. When I was her age, my grandfather would unhinge his pocket knife’s worn blade and separate the skin from an apple like a sculptor. I’d marvel when presented with the translucent, tantalizing coil. Last week, tethered to the coil of his oxygen tank, his once sturdy hands gestured to me in disbelief. “Why do I feel so weak?” he questioned. I looked down at his hands, in awe that he still had the strength to hold mine.