Thursday, January 3, 2013


I can almost hear the laughter in his eyes as the skin wrinkles into bunches around the cheeks, and his lips turn upward into a smile.

But you are so young!

Indeed, what is forty to an octogenarian?  One recalls the infantile wanderings of childhood.  Only the decades can mold experience into wisdom and understanding. The contrasting elasticity of the skin mocks the fine tuning of the senses.  I watch as my muscles grow limp, and my waste line bulges.  He remembers such foibles as firmity in comparison to the total loss of turgor.

I have a young man's thoughts and aspirations.  I bend to the folly of a young man's dreams.  For me, there is never enough time.  For him, his schedule may be uncluttered, but he is also a slave to the finite.  He moves slowly.  Talks slowly.  He pauses and thinks before opening his mouth.  He has experienced the worries that tumble through my mind.  He knows.

He knows.

Waltzing through the door after a busy day in the office, I pause in the entry way.  My son is building a tower of Legos clear to the ceiling.  He moves with the swiftness of youth.  His body lean and muscular, he learns mastery through physical dominance.  He notices me out of the corner of his eye.

Daddy, I'm going to make the largest building ever!

He is linear.  His exuberance is the fuel that powers the imagination.  If it can be thought, than it can be done. 

I shake my head and nod approvingly.  He tries to be an adult already.  I can't help but mouth the words so recently slung in my direction.

But you are so young.

I can still hear the old man's guffaws as he clanks out of my exam room with his walker.

Not for long my friend. 

Not for long!

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