Growing Old

I think that when we are still young and strong, growing old is some distant prospect that annoyingly intrudes into our lives only occasionally. We don't give it much thought or lend it credence.

After birth is a decade of childhood; another decade or so of blissful, reckless youth, followed by another two to four decades of growing up and mellowing and pursuing dreams. We then come out of these either wealthy but depraved, or impoverished but wise; or morally upright or rakish; or diseased and dying; or healthy and endowed with longevity, natural or otherwise.

We then discover that, from birth to death, life is short, and we take stock of our joys, our sadness; of those we found and lost; those who left and remained, those we hated and loved.

We take stock of many things. We sort and sift through them, and we discover that only a few really matter.