Treasured

I sometimes can't imagine a different life than the one I've had.  I think most people looking from the outside in would peg it as a bit peculiar because it certainly was unorthodox.  It doesn't look anything like the lives described to me by the people I've met.  It looks quiet, ordinary and unspectacular.  I'm not certain how it's possible I am nearing forty when I was reared without television, movies, jeans and jewelry.  Yet, here I am nearing forty, living with little concept of ET and a warehouse of stories, aches, memories, and griefs.

Already I see the many mistakes I've made in the rearview mirror; they multiply more than I care to admit, but I also see grace that shines through the days and minutes of a past I often want to forget. When it's painful or sad or when I think of the stupid things I have said or done, I close my eyes, shake my head, and try to think of something else.  I have a lot of these moments because I'm far less than perfect and I have a very good memory.

It is a treasured thing to be witness to a life that is waning.  I know I have often spoken of death and what it is to taste it in small doses; I have not experienced it much.  It is so impactful to watch the pieces moving, the roles that people play, and to feel the memories with all your senses.  It is both bitter and sweet and having a window into the process prepares me for the future.

It takes grace to be aged, it is for the strong, not the weak, of heart.  It looks lonely.  It looks frightening. It looks overwhelming. Understanding first hand what you wondered it would be like your whole life is, well, anti- climatic. It isn't at all what you had hoped and you more than likely wish you could turn the ticking clock back even just five years please.

I made fudge with my eighty three year old grandfather yesterday.  Fudge is his specialty and really is a far cry from special when my hand is involved in the process.  It turned out well, despite a few snafus, and when I looked at his face at the end, tears came to my eyes.  Remember this, Angela.  Remember this moment of victory in a life that ever draws near to an end. It's not over, but it's getting difficult, and once joyful tasks cause anxiety and stress.  This should be easy, but it is hard, and yet, he is happy to be doing this with you.  Remember the feel of his hand in yours; it is not the confident hand of a younger man but of an old and uncertain one, one that once held your entire body in his hand.

Stories have been told.  Memories have been shared. Twice he asked if I wrote a book yet and twice, with great emotion, he said I really needed to do it.   Tears have come.   I look at this man and he is crying because he loves me.  I am crying because I love him.  And I look back on my life.  I look back on my mistakes.  I look back on painful events. I look back on a little girl with blonde pigtails, blue eyes, and a book as a forever companion, and I know she is far from perfect today, but everything she now is, she owes to God and the legacy of family.  To be loved is no small thing.

Who needs ET?