Tuesday, July 22, 2014

When I am old I won't care if I wear purple

 I work among the elderly, the old, the young people in bodies that betray the spirit in them.  It's not how any of them envisioned their life to be when they were strong and agile and quick thinking.  When they could hold a spoon and wipe themselves and swallow quickly, not taking five minutes for a pureed barbecue sandwich to go down a pipe that once was eager to transport the nourishment to the stomach.

Now.  Now they are who they were once afraid of becoming.  Waiting for time to stop for them.  Watching the clock waiting for a son or a daughter or a grandchild to walk through the doors and take them back to a time when they were in charge, when they were strong.

It's not where they thought they'd be, but here they are, anyway.

Waiting.  Wondering.  Remembering.  Forgetting.  Hoping.

Some live in a time of yesterday and when asked how old they are they say, "nineteen," with a cheesy grin, even though they really are one hundred years old.

Don't we all have the nineteen year old living inside us, being betrayed by the body that keeps aging inspite of our belief we will never be old.

Maybe when our new bodies are delivered, when we're in the place of perfection, we will be at the age when we felt the most loved, the most needed, the most strong and agile.  When our minds were sponges and we were taking all of life in before the sufferings and discouragements found their way into our souls.

Maybe.

Writing with Heather.

Peace,
Ronda

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