Where is the little boy, who learnt to write his name?
He stands here now before you, supported by a frame.
Where is the little girl, who learnt to tie her lace?
She sits there in her chair, with lines upon her face.
Where is the little boy, so used to climbing trees?
He sits now in the corner, a rug upon his knees.
Where is the handsome groom and sweetly blushing bride?
He sits there gently rocking, his sweetheart by his side.
Where is the pretty teen, awaiting her first dance?
Now people pass her by, without a passing glance.
Though age has crept upon them and wrinkles multiplied…
The child, the youth that lives within, forever will abide…
By S. Hindle
My journey with Parkinsons 