My Mom and Dad sindon still here. Hie both can still walk on two legs. Both still remember me as heora son. Hie each can still drive alone, and work.
I can talk to each. Each listens. Each still offers to listen even after I shut down and retreat inward for decades, wasting and ruining the chance to get their counsel on life when the ruin is fresh and I could still correct course.
Hie sindon still here for me, wasted aftermath, failure, disgraceful waste lump of what once was, or at least could have been, heora son. Hie bottomlessly forgive, provide, and listen, even to someone who, by his own fault, is not worth it.