when parents become old

I remember the moment when my father became old in my eyes. It was a small thing, a gesture, really. He was walking down the stairs, and his hand trembled on the railing. I think I had never seen him look so fragile before. It was as if I had been living in a dream, where my parents were always strong, always invincible. But in that moment, I saw the truth. I saw that they were human, just like me. I felt a pang of sadness, of loss, of nostalgia. I thought of all the times I had taken them for granted, all the times I had assumed they would always be there, always be strong. I think of the way my mother's hands used to move deftly in the kitchen, the way my father's voice used to boom with laughter. Now, their hands move slowly, their voices are softer. I don't know how to reconcile this new reality with the parents I once knew. I wonder what it means to care for them, to support them, to love them in this new way.