It hurts like physical pain. Missing someone you will never see again is a hard road to travel.
It comes and goes.
It goes away for days and months.
It returns at the oddest times.
Never appropriate.
I'll be brushing my teeth and it's there. Not a bang or boom. Yet, not quiet. More like an ache - a yearning - an "Oh God, please" moment. A flash of the possibility that it didn't happen. They are around - not gone. I want so desperately to get on the phone for a chat. Drive over - drop in. I feel this is possible. I know it's not.
I then ponder the afterlife. I beseech the spirits. Give me a sign. Knock the shampoo off the shelf to prove - to prove what? Knock the shampoo off the shelf to say hello - to give me hope - to inspire me to figure this whole thing out. If you love me, you'll do it.
IF YOU LOVE ME YOU'LL DO IT!!!!!!
The shampoo remains stubbornly on the shelf. You don't love me.
YOU DON'T LOVE ME!
This extreme yearning exhausts me. So, I give it up. The longing subsides. Sanity rules. I'm back to my senses. It's mostly forgotten - for now. The yearning becomes a dull low-grade pang. That, too, will subside. I won't feel this way for a long time. And that's a blessing of sorts.
It's necessary.
It's survival.
It's what I need to live a sane centered life.
These episodes are like visits - like holy hauntings.
Perhaps they are the sign. Not the shampoo bottle.
The yearning, the missing - that's the "hello, I'm here - see you later"
“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the over wrought heart and bids it break.”
― William Shakespeare
When I was a kid and even a twenty , thirty and forty something, I believed that old people didn't aspire to anything - that old people didn't dream - weren't interested in any further accomplishments in life - that the world belonged to me and all the other young citizens of the universe.
After fifty, if you haven't gotten what you wanted out of life, there was no sense in still wanting it. There was little sense in wanting to hope and strive for something else other than what you ended up doing for most of your life.
I was sure these thoughts and hopes never even entered an older person's mind anyway.
I was also positive that whatever an older person had to offer it couldn't possibly be worth much.
Hopes, dreams, new adventures, careers and romance were only for the young.
Older folk had it and didn't need it anymore. Older folk didn't fantasize - weren't inspired. Older folk were just occupying the space they carved out for themselves and that was that.
I think you know where I'm going with this.
To my surprise, I still dream about what I want to be when I grow up. I still strive to achieve. I am still completely interested in how I can contribute to the human community.
Believe me - listen to me very carefully - IT NEVER STOPS!
In my mind, I am not an age - a number. I am a person who is always thinking about what I can do to scratch that itch - that urge to accomplish - that willingness to take a chance - that love of a challenge. I still enjoy making new friends, eating new cuisines, sampling the latest in artful things - music, movies, theater, paintings and sculpture - architecture - BOOKS .
I'm still interested in work - working. To my utter surprise, I work all the time whether it be volunteer or for pay.
I know I'm not alone. Anyone over fifty will tell you, age is just a number.
I am surprised when I think about this. Who would have thought that getting older does not change who you are and what you want out of life. You remain forever the same person who played with dolls and toy trucks - who watched Mickey Mouse and read picture books - who believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Only the toys change as you age. Now it's iPods and ipads, kindles and Bluetooth - cocktails and Miller Lite, cars and sex - no more playing house.
I am still who I always was and that surprises me. Of course I have grown and acquired skills, knowledge, culture, opinions - yet, astonishingly, I am still little Anthony - a laugher, an avid observer, annoyingly curious, deeply loyal to those I love, easily hurt even by those I don't love, insecure around beautiful people, thrilled to be in spitting distance of the very talented, forever needing assurance - validation, eager to love and be loved - loved by everybody.
Yes, all these traits that are mistakenly attributed only to the young remain forever with me - us - all of us - I am certain.
We don't get old. We just get older. Our features age. Our hair turns grey. Our stamina falters. We pop cholesterol pills and monitor our blood pressure. But who are we? What have we become? We haven't become anything except older. We are still who we ever were.
I am still who I ever was. In my minds eye, I am young hopeful Anthony. I wake up always with a purpose or in search of a purpose. When I catch my image in the bathroom mirror each morning, I expect to see this young hopeful Anthony. Of course, what I see is some old stranger looking back.
But wait - the eyes - the eyes looking back at me - it's in the eyes - there he is - young hopeful Anthony ready to take on the new day and grateful for it.
