WHEN a person is old, he or she has only one’s soul for company. There are times when you feel it crying, but you do not ask why. Your eyes are dry, but heavy, hot tears drop on your heart.
There is nothing to do but wait and listen to the emptiness which is sometimes gentle on a quiet day. The space and feeling of non-existence can be elevating.
Age puzzles me. Old people are not protected from life by engagements, pleasure or duties. We have a duty to be “all right” and not be a problem, or burden those that care while we carry on our age lightly.
Being old, I am out of step, troubled by my lack of concord feeling at variance with the times. It must be the essence of age. It is confusing — I feel wounded and exposed, bereft of a right matrix with the present crime, corruption in high places heavy on my heart. I weigh and appraise while recoil suffering, just like the rest of my colleagues.
The old live by recalling the past, fascinated by the query of where future is. The present seems empty, as there is nothing to be said about the old, except that they are absorbed by age.
We wonder how much is in the minds of the old? How much older we have to become, and what degree of decay we must have to endure? We keep whispering, ”Is this age yet? How far must I go?”
For age can be dreaded more than death. ”How many years of vacuity to what degree of dilemma must I advance?” With thoughts in our hearts, we know ignominy as well as dignity. These warps you before the end, but can we garner enough merits to warrant a place for ourselves?
But all is unchartered and uncertain leading the way to the unknown, like an end to a procession through time. One’s steps are uncertain, but there is gain, as well as loss.
There were times when I knew peace, but my mind was as empty as a cloudless sky on a summer day when my hands were too arthritic and only my music prevents my facing through.
When I am with other people, I try to find a point in myself as I walk on egg shells of affection, trying not to hurt or misjudge. All of these are very tiring, but love at any age takes everything away from you. My notes as not helping me think, but it eases my crabbed heart, when I wanted to scale the sky, without offering flowers of humility.
Now, each extra day is a gift, in which I may gain some new understanding, see beauty, feel love or know the richness of my youngest grandson, Ezekiel, as he express himself with form and sweetness.
Today, I seem so well — almost brilliantly well — so I ran off, feeling like a sugar drunk toddler.
It used to be called being “in the hands of God.”
Has anyone better words to describe it?
E-mail Mylah at firstname.lastname@example.org