Facing the Inevitable

Last week, I was on the Loyola University campus and was amazed at how young the students are. Goodness sakes, I'm old enough to be their grandmother. Was it really THAT long ago that I walked the quad?

The thing is that even though I am comfortable telling people my age, I guess sometimes I forget - or my inner self goes into denial. The number just doesn't mean anything. I don't feel so very different than I did 30 or 40 years ago. . .

I don’t remember getting old. It must have happened quite suddenly - overnight, while I slept, I suspect. I never saw it coming, and my best friends never told me. I wonder if my parents and grandparents had the same difficulty reconciling themselves with passing time.

I recall my father telling me once of seeing a young man jogging down the street, and thinking to himself that it looked to be quite an enjoyable exercise. So, he tried it, but found he had forgotten how to run. Papa was 86 years old.

It's okay - I know I’m old; I've been receiving offers from AARP for years now. And, I must be old because my girls are over 30 themselves - though I remember them still as I tied their hair with ribbons, and we shopped for Easter dresses. Somehow, I think, that my memories - always fresh, always evoking the feelings of one bygone moment or another - are responsible for my confused state.

Sensory memories, like acid flashbacks, are vivid and emotionally charged. Transporting me through time and space, rekindling life’s sparks. . . Like the smell of raspberries - sun ripened, just picked - and I am suddenly the carefree four year old, with stained fingers, on my Grandfather's midwestern farm.

Or, something in the stillness of a summer’s morning - that hints of the day it will be, but isn’t yet - and my father tells a younger me that there’s still time for one more set of tennis.

A melody or song recalls a dance, though my partner’s gone. The words and rhythms, nonetheless, conjure spirits of lost young loves.

The sweet dampness of mossy loam - as a nascent woman-child, I bring blankets and books, and lie face down in dappled shade, studying life and lifeforms under familiar boughs.

Or, I could be the co-ed I just passed when I hear the patter of rain on the roof. But I’m cutting class, sitting instead with a friend in his flat, drinking wine, talking of life, and love, and sophomoric philosophy.

Precious moments preserved in delicious, sensuous vignettes. And, I have 40 more years to look forward to. . .

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
Albert Camus