(My OAO and I)
When I was young, time was measured in hours, even minutes. It just couldn’t be any faster. Then the measurement became days of working, sleeping and hope for a break. Now it is by weeks. Soon it will be by months. Then the seasons will mark what was and what will be. Can time be any slower?
Old age requires more imagination, more in depth searching of what is important and what should be. It is a time of dead ends, plateaus, watching the grass grow and patiently waiting to board the last train for the next chapter. It is juggling bitter sweet memories with the hope that smiles overpower the tears, that love conquers the hate.
Still there is no end to what can be done. Each man matters. Insignificance is a choice. Advocacy, convictions, the purity of the human heart make exciting endeavors. To live for one self to the hilt, one just need to live for others. Even for just a while.
Empty nest should not mean absence nor lost nor a longing that will never be fulfilled. Empty nest should be passion without guilt, watching movies until the wee hours while eating ice cream and reliving boyfriend-girlfriend sans chaperons.
Saturday breakfast of unhurried stories makes wonders of coffee, eggs, longganisa and grilled eggplant with tomatoes and onions. Maybe bad for the health but always good for the heart.
The wind blows a little stronger to rid the trees of dead leaves. Clouds move across the sky like sailboats while dragons chase the disappearing dreams. In another summer, time moves on not to cajole nor to spite, but to etch memories on our wrinkled minds. Worry not of how much light will there be before the darkness. Nor how long will the warmth be before the cold. Our only choice is to live. And to grow old as Fate dictates.
And still the grass grows.