Entering a new country

I look in the mirror, and I’m startled.  My body is gaunt.  I’m developing one of those old-man bodies you see on the beach.  Bones everywhere.  You could hang clothes from my collarbones.  I am so close to my skeleton now.  I am seventy-seven.  77, to be abundantly clear.  Old by official standards.  Old enough to have a senior citizen rapid transit card and AARP membership to prove it.   What fear and loathing I have of that word—old.  It makes me angry.  And defiant.  And scared. 

Old means slow, forgetful, dull, doddering, and weak.  And perhaps worst of all, complaining.  How am I going to contend with this?  How am I going to manage growing old, aging, being old?  I am a traveler who has crossed over a drawbridge into a strange and unchartered country, a stranger in a strange land.  Everything about this country, this commonwealth of aging, is new to me.  What are the customs here?  What is its culture?  Old.  How do I act?  How can I be a good citizen?  How can I be brave and good-natured and still contribute to the world?  How will I deal with the inevitable assault and battery on my mind and body? 

In this new land, I look around for a guide, for someone to tell me how to act, what to do.  I see no one.  I ask my fellow ancients for help and advice.  They have none.  They’re just as unprepared as I am.  We look at each other in confusion.  What happens next?

I look longingly at that drawbridge I recently crossed.  I see people I know back on the other side.  I see landscapes I’m familiar with.  Landmarks.  I spent a great deal of time there—my life, so far.  But that is a land I am no longer given access to.  I go to the bridge and ask the officer at the gatehouse if I can cross back over.  Sorry, he says, not anymore.  He looks at his watch. “You’re still in time for the early bird special here, though,” he says, smiling.    

I encounter some people who ask me enlightening questions. “Is everything functioning well?  And that includes you know what.”  It is, I reply.  “Is you daughter healthy and thriving.”  She is.  “Do you have friends?”  I do.  “Do you still laugh?”  As often as I can.  “Have you kissed a woman recently?”  As a matter of fact, I have.  “Did she kiss you back?” She did!  “Have you seen a Chestnut-sided warbler recently?”  In July.  “Are you still able to cry?”  I can.  “Are you still curious?  Are you learning new things?”  Every single day.  “Have you taken a hot shower today?”  This morning.  “Did it feel good?”  Heavenly.  It felt heavenly.

I thank them for their gentle reminders.  I take a deep breath.  Then another. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.