The other day, I heard my dad casually mention that his knees hurt while climbing up the stairs.

My mom added, “My knees hurt too, especially when the stairs are steep”

She said so casually, as if it were no big affair.

Like it meant nothing. 

Like it was evident.

The change of a season. Summer to spring.

Like it didn't knock the wind out of me. Didn't send me reeling.

Why are you asking me if your outfit looks fine? “Is this what's trendy”?

Weren't you the one deciding my clothes just yesterday? Braiding my hair and buying me 

shoes?

Has it been that long already?

It hit me like a truck, a flashback

The time my dad used to carry me on his back easily,

Now he complains of backache.

Back then, we'd race, and he'd lose willingly.

The time I was in first grade, I'd hear my mom come running down the stairs 

She'd come halfway down and ask, “Who's back from school?”

Her excitement over the smiley I received didn't prepare me for the world outside– heartless and 

cruel.

The harrowing realisation of them getting old 

Dad showed his grey hair to me and joked, “You see the number of those lightbulbs is getting 

out of control?”

A joke never pierced my heart like this before.

The sands of time have been relentless to me,

As they have been beneficent.

It always gets me, the ambivalent nature of time

It manages to elude me, with every chime.