April 4, 2012

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Not Young


Sometimes I cannot help but feel the heaviness of impermanence. Like I’m carrying a bowling ball, but if I dare set it down, even for a moment, to rest my arms and soul, that I will lose something precious. Irretrievable. It takes all my courage to go on, to breath it in, let it go, and move forward.

The cats, at seventeen and thirteen, are not young. Paris has cloudy eyes and has now started to limp a little when she walks. Milo’s had an occasional gimp for several years. They are going to die. So are you, me, and everyone we know. One fine day. Just let the cats go before I do, for I fear their ways will not get them far in the company of others. They are ours. We are theirs. We understand each other.

A friend of mine has breast cancer. Such heavy words. Another friend had it last year. My neck has a muscle knotted so damn tightly that sometimes I think will snap at the slightest movement. Signs of transiency and frailty. My body, despite all it can do, is not young. My hair is turning grey. I wear bifocals. My cheeks and knees are sagging. It’s only going to keep going. I hope for a long time. I hope at least until my novel is published, kissed those lips again, looked into those eyes, hugged that beautiful soul, seen the summer blue of the sky. But we never really know, do we? What will our last moment be? Happy, I hope, near to grace and all that is fine.

Embrace the everlasting that vanishes with the tide. Watch Paris sit on my lap like a granny and Milo step lightly, helping me put sheets on the bed. Read this sentence and feel gratitude, for this breath, for rainbows in the evening sky (arriba!), for friends near and far, for love, for this moment that is all we have.