Skipping Down Staircases

There’s an old person living in my body. I noticed her a while ago but didn’t give her much thought. She felt familiar enough to be non-threatening. Mostly I was slightly amused at her inadvertently barging into normally well-performed activities.  Excuse me?!

I’m noticing her more now, her presence eclipsing my memory of a younger me. In fact, she’s fully unpacked and taking over my personal space. I really dislike how she looks in my clothes. Sometimes I’m glad I live alone so that no one else sees the extent of her overtaking.

I’ll be turning 81 in a few days. Somehow it feels different now that I’ll have to say, “I’m in my eighties” instead of just “I’m eighty”—a slight difference maybe, but a bit disconcerting. This stretch of road ahead harbors some foreboding, a few additional potholes, more uncharted terrain. I notice the old person in me nodding off; she is unconcerned, detached, kind of so what! No longer threatened by others’ opinions or the probable inconvenient disruptions ahead, she remains unperturbed, composed in her wrinkles. Hmmm. I sort of like her.

So, we dance carefully around each other, this older me and the memory of a younger me. At times we merge, especially when I’m creating art, engaging with a grandson, or enthralled by the beauty of nature—it’s a total in-body experience! Later, I again notice that though I can make it up stairs with ease thanks to hip replacement surgery, going down them can be a challenge. She’s unsteady, this older person in me. The memory of a younger me pretty much skipping down staircases seems unreal, dreamt up even. I miss her, a lot, sometimes.

What bruises me is watching my family moving on without me. Don’t get me wrong: one of my deepest desires is to see them doing so, together even better. It’s not the same as FOMO, fear of missing out. It’s the feeling of missing THEM. Being with my family means everything to me, wherever, whenever—and, thankfully, we are together and do things together a lot. My older me tenderly reminds me how fortunate I am, encouraging me to keep breathing, to hold happiness close. It’s actually me who will be leaving them behind.

The road stretching ahead is a final one—my final lap. From here it doesn’t look like a short journey, rather a winding one of gentle declines, verdant meadows alive with birdsong, sparkling brooks and peaceful horizons. The older me and the memory of a younger me will go on this expedition together—the younger reminding the older to occasionally kick up her heels; the older prompting the younger to hold on to the railing.