#12. Turning 80
(Uplifting cheeriness rating: one star) I’ve always been a fan of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. His stories may be the reason that, for the past few years, a part of me has continued to believe that I’d be allowed to arrive at and remain seventy-nine indefinitely, or at least until I was ready to gracefully assume the mantle of advanced age (never! by the way). No such luck. May 6th dawned, I opened cards and gifts and blew out candles after making my wish(es). Then I got up on May 7th, and as I’ve already shared on Facebook, I checked the mirror, discovering I had not magically morphed into Nora Ephron. I was not thirty years old. Worse, I was officially eighty years old. Don’t misunderstand. I am very happy to be here, to be alive, despite missing my parents, my in-laws, my brother, gone twenty years now, all three of my dear sisters-in-law, many beloved friends, all having left the party too early, leaving me behind bereft. As Philip Roth, that dear old cock-eyed optimist (not!) put it, “Old age isn’t a battle: it’s a massacre.” And yet, and yet . . .my first thought upon awakening remains, “So happy . . . I am so happy to be here in such a world in all its criminal beauty.” (I don't actually think all that every day, just the "so happy to be here" part. I'm a poet. So give me a break.)
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April 2024
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