At one point in my life, I never saw myself as being old. I'd see the older folks sitting on their front porch, visiting with a neighbor they've probably known for more years than I've been alive. I'd like to know what they talk about, and what their generation faced, like wars that took hundreds of thousands of lives, most just boys who left a heartbroken family behind. I often found myself trying to imagine all the changes they went through, but the numbers are too great.
The great depression, standing in bread lines and hording pennies to buy a treat for the children. Hand-made toys carved with a pocket knife, so there would be something under the tattered Christmas tree, a throw-away left behind, and hand-me-down clothes that rarely fit. Men standing on corners through every kind of weather, hoping to be picked for a day's work. But usually goes back home to his family empty-handed.
I look into the faces that time, weathered with tear ducts long ago dried up, no more to give. So many stars in the windows telling the neighborhood their boys had served, and the pride they feel can't be put into words.
I feel the emptiness they feel every day as I see them looking toward a place I guess only they can see and feel. Their own private slide show of carefree days of their youth, before time took over, catching them off guard as it did to me.
I can't tell you where the years went as they all blended into one life, my life. Aside from the white hair and skin that don't fit anymore, I feel like I did as a young man, out to conquer the world one day at a time, but a little bit slower. Soon, I imagine I'll have a place on the porch and wave to my neighbor as I've done for too many years to recall. I'll stare into space, where my memories seem scattered as I try to remember the good and the not-so-good.
Growing old isn't a curse; it's a blessing we've been given, a chance to look back to the spring dance where you met your soon-to-be wife. The birth of your children and that new house you had built, where you'd live for sixty-five years, making memories all along the way.
Mostly, as I look into the eyes of an elder, I believe they are seeing the faces of family and friends that have entered the light before them. I believe they see them as they remembered them when their hair was brown, and their skin was tight. When they could dance the night away and steal a kiss under the street light. Now I see myself as I once saw others, and it's all okay.
I look into the faces that time, weathered with tear ducts long ago dried up, no more to give. So many stars in the windows telling the neighborhood their boys had served, and the pride they feel can't be put into words.
I feel the emptiness they feel every day as I see them looking toward a place I guess only they can see and feel. Their own private slide show of carefree days of their youth, before time took over, catching them off guard as it did to me.
I can't tell you where the years went as they all blended into one life, my life. Aside from the white hair and skin that don't fit anymore, I feel like I did as a young man, out to conquer the world one day at a time, but a little bit slower. Soon, I imagine I'll have a place on the porch and wave to my neighbor as I've done for too many years to recall. I'll stare into space, where my memories seem scattered as I try to remember the good and the not-so-good.
Growing old isn't a curse; it's a blessing we've been given, a chance to look back to the spring dance where you met your soon-to-be wife. The birth of your children and that new house you had built, where you'd live for sixty-five years, making memories all along the way.
Mostly, as I look into the eyes of an elder, I believe they are seeing the faces of family and friends that have entered the light before them. I believe they see them as they remembered them when their hair was brown, and their skin was tight. When they could dance the night away and steal a kiss under the street light. Now I see myself as I once saw others, and it's all okay.
Mike 2026
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