I am afraid. Really, in a knees-turned-to-jelly way. After all these years of convincing myself that “I can do it.” That I can overcome my fears and get through struggles and tough times and tough people I depended on in order to feed and house my family.
“You’ve done it before; you’ll do it again. You just suck it up and move forward.”
Until you can’t. Until you need an arm to cling to, and you’re not sure it will be there.
At 73, I suddenly feel frail. This is earth-shattering. I don’t jump out of bed at 6 a.m. I become acutely aware of the possibility of falling and breaking bones. Going down stairs, I cling to railings and watch each footstep.
I do not understand the tech language of smartphones or apps. I once knew how to use computers and programs, but since I retired, there’s so much more out there, and instructions are confusing.
The movie stars I enjoyed watching are not working any more, and every week some celebrity dies of old age. When did they get so old? Who is Bradley Cooper? Or Taylor Swift? And is she feuding with someone?
I married in 1966. Was that 50 years ago? Time, it seems, is a capricious measurement. It does not depend on gravity and space, or the speed of light. It depends on one breath taken at a time, one more footstep on that new journey, one new moment of love next to one of tragedy and sorrow. It is a narrative arc in a book you speed-read every day.