IN LOCO ESSE  

15 June 2015 | The Window


I have now reached that age where I can see that a window has existed between my mid-20s and early 40s when things are fairly stable. Everyone in your family is in good health; cousins are having kids that can grow up with yours, and funerals are still a rare enough thing.

I see that I missed that window. My cousins have kids who are now into their late teens but I remain childless. My parents have entered that stage of their own lives when it's a constant round of doctor visits and funerals for their friends. Health problems have now cropped up. I have a friend who is dying of blood cancer, someone who is my age but a stark reminder that the good old days are gone. I think back ten years and we worried about careers and the like, but no one talked of dying. I look at my aunts and uncles with a sense of urgency, that their time is now limited and you wonder how many days are left.

Of course, it's not like that for every family. Some are in pretty bad shape, others not so much, but we all seem to follow a similar trajectory, and we all have that moment of equilibrium. It's the sweet spot of life, a little glorious moment of summer between spring and winter. And if you don't grasp it enough, and if you don't appreciate it enough, you'll have a sense of longing, like that first chill when the weather changes: it smells different, feels different. Then you know that the window is closing, made worse because you didn't bother to enjoy it.

As I write this, I look at my onion bulb plant that a former co-worker gave me years ago. A very nice woman who has since passed away as the result of brain cancer. The single, long leaf of the plant, more like a frond, is starting to droop and brown at the edge. It's dying. I think of my friend who is now in hospice, as every attempt to rid his body of the blood cancer has failed. I get these superstitious moments: I see the drooping leaf as a symbol of him. I keep hoping for it to spring back. I talk to it, I say sorry for having left it outside on a hot day which I'm sure started its decline, and I wonder if it would have started to happen anyway. I'll never know. I just watch it change slowly day after day, edging toward the inevitable.

The window closes, and there is nothing I can do about it.

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