“He seems so young” you thought, while reading my soliloquy’s as they fairly well kept from the page.
“But he is young”, she says to herself, and not really to me, directly, sort of over one shoulder, the thought of looking at my Santa Claus beard, my gray eyebrows, the white mustache, that little piddly bit of hair running a low path around my scalp, and the ever present baldness, dominating any hope of her looking at me with anything serious.
It’s hard to believe I could make 62. The old heart worked its tail off, until 48, and then the Dr. intervened and made a series of cuts, and cuts and more cuts and rearranged things inside, cut and pasted the ticker back together again, leaving a half dozen scars where he went and got patchwork.
But that was 48. This is 62. That’s 14 years of beating the devil, out of his one good chance of clobbering me.
Life (if I can go that strong) is all muddled up, all stirred up. It is fraught with damage that you cannot have planned, frightful times that you never considered, rugged times of loss and losing, tears that roll up, and great pulling from inside when you watch someone else’s pain. As we all do. Too often.
But there is that other side. It lets us be quick witted, smart aleck, embarrassed to take a compliment, ready to stand up and take off our hat when they sing the National Anthem, full of jokes, and laughter. Feeling the soft skin of that grand daughter who made a delightful entrance to the world. And thinking not about the world she must live in and be loved in. Being one who doesn’t believe in pride, but is proud to live and love in our great country.
Life is full of the tough side. Life is more full and richer because of the side we want to see and believe in, and will miss so much one day.
I’m glad it is 62. Wait til you read what I write for 65.
August 31, 2020
Ralph Peck
Photo by Marla Bolton
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