Time Marches On

I sat zoning at the light on University Parkway, my mind not exactly blank but close enough for me to just soak it up (...because that doesn't happen often). Suddenly the hand resting on the steering wheel caught my eye. I frowned, releasing my grip and studying this strange thing in front of me. Spots, wrinkles, lines I'd never noticed before covered every surface of a hand showing real signs of aging. I was shocked, nearly panicked, the words of Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias popping into my brain. "Time marches on, and eventually you realize it's marchin' across your face," she declared, as she talked about the need for a woman to maintain her beauty. The light turned green and I drove the rest of the way home in a daze. I am growing older and it's starting to show. I think, however, I'm the most surprised to actually BE aging. I wasn't expecting to live this long.

It is fitting that my hands are what I noticed first in regards to my body changing with age. I have my mother's hands, a fact that's always given me comfort on the days when missing her is still like a potent ache. She died young. I have always assumed I'd share her fate, although why I've thought this has no logical explanation. I think maybe when the possibility of my came during my pregnancy with my son, I resigned myself to the fact that if I went through with carrying him to term, that would be his beginning and my end. It didn't turn out that way, and from my perspective sometimes that twist of fate feels as if it's terribly in error. I was prepared to sacrifice my life for his. And yet, here I am while he is gone...here I am growing older every day.

I let my thoughts stretch out into the living. My Aunts are totally rocking their fifties and sixties. I have family who are brilliant, spry and wonderful well into their seventies and eighties. Earlier today at the grocery store, I met an elegant, lovely woman with kind eyes who was timeless, whatever her age. "It's going to be ok," I silently remind myself. I look down, reexamining hands so similar to the woman who gave birth to me. It's okay that they're not youthful and perfect. It's okay that they're showing wear. It's okay if I make new dreams and live. Doing so won't betray those I've lost. And it's okay to allow myself to be happy. In fact, doing so is an honor to their memory, not an abandonment.