At the age of 82, stooped, gnarled hands, knobbly knees … I stare at my reflection and marvel at this body that houses me. I feel my heart beat. Steady. My blood thrums in my veins. My brain is sharp. I know the clock is ticking but so far my body and mind have stood rock solid by me for all these years.
I’ve experienced joy, love, sorrow, loss. My heart has sung and it has ached. My liver has, too!
In my 20s, I didn’t give it a thought. I was young and I was driven. I was the master of my destiny. I pushed it. I whipped it. I disregarded it. I took pleasure from it. I starved it. I over-fed it. I abused it. I took it for granted. It didn’t break under the relentless pressure and stayed strong, absorbing the punches.
As I grew older, I had to get my machine serviced from time to time. A fracture. Pneumonia. Appendicitis. Flu. Heart attack. Diminished eye sight. Diminished hearing. Stuff. Each breakdown reminded me of its value. This wonderful machine that works so hard. Relentlessly. No weekends off. No power naps. No holidays. Definitely, no vacation. It keeps at it. Maybe, its the partnership I formed with my body that allowed it to give me its best. Or I’m just one of the lucky ones.
I look back at my life and see my body as my constant companion. A sensory bridge that allowed me to experience this life to the fullest. For that, I can only feel grateful.
As I near the end, I’m conscious of my failing and tired body and all I wish is for it to go gently into the night when it is done.
with immense gratitude,
A young old man
Existential tête à tête 