Continuity

I think when I was a teenager
My folks may have repented
The folly of giving birth to me.
But now the grey hair
Is on the other foot,
And my aging mother depends
Very much on my cousin and I
For everyday tasks and concerns.
What a precarious existance
It must be-that's life, I guess-
The petulant child
Grows into the semi-devoted caregiver.
The hair-tearing years of adolescence
Have blossomed into Social Security.