Ageism, Part Three: An Old Man’s Story

I have discovered both how very long and how very short my story is. I know how much can happen in a moment, but also in the end how all moments will drown in the waves of time. I understand how you can miss a forest by only looking at the trees. I must deal with my importance, and my insignificance, and try to find a balance between the two. I get lost somewhere in the middle, knowing that what I do and what I say and what I feel in a moment is both eternal, and fleeting.

The Old Man’s Story

The old man remembers how her skin felt beneath his fingers. Because he is old now has a chance to look back and understand things he never understood before. He can appreciate these moments, keep them from slipping away unnoticed. He has no regrets. His only sadness is that both his wife and his son are gone before him. His wife was caring and kind. She went in her sleep. When he thinks of her now he thinks of her young, wide eyed and wondering about the future. He remembers her smiling, soft to touch and light to laugh. The way she was the day he married her.

His son’s death was less peaceful. His son was a pilot for a cargo company. He flew all around the world. On a return trip from South Africa one night near Christmas he ran out of fuel fifty miles east of Nova Scotia. He was forced to land his plan in the freezing water of the Atlantic Ocean. He jumped into the water without his heated suit. He couldn’t get his on in time. Because. The cockpit was too small. These things aren’t supposed to happen. But. Then. Everyone can say that at some point or another.

The rescue boat was near. He called to them, “Throw me a line! Throw me a line!” but by the time they did and pulled him on-board it was too late. He had been in the water for far too long. He died of hypothermia and drowning – the old man unsure why two causes were listed for one outcome.

The way the old man was raised it is the son that takes your name, continues your legacy, lives on after you with your grandchildren and your inheritance. Everything will now be left to his nieces and nephews who live on opposite sides of the country. But it was hard mostly because he missed his son terribly, and still does every day. In his bedroom, in the old house on Eustis Street where the trees have grown so large they hang over the sidewalk; you know these houses have been here for such a long time.

A long time. And such a short time.

This isn’t meant to be a sad story. The old man thinks. More of a reflection. Something that happened. It is assumed that when you tell a story like this it is sympathy you’re looking for. But that isn’t the case. After living as many years as he has you start to understand that things sometimes just happen. And there isn’t much you can do to change them. And there isn’t much use in letting them define you. But it is important to remember, and to reflect, as you move forward. Pay attention and appreciate each moment regardless of what it has to offer.

It’s up to you how you view your life. I used to think things happened to me. I know now things just happen.

The old man has a smile on his face. Thinking about the years he had with my son, and the many more years he had with his wife. He thinks about the way she felt in his arms and the touch of her skin on his fingers. He thinks about his job making toys for McConnell Toy Company. And he thinks about the warm Christmases and birthdays when his toys were given and received. There is joy in both giving and getting and he is proud of his role in both.

He is a sentimental old man. These ramblings he doubts have worth for anyone else. They belong wedged somewhere between the wedding and birthday photos he still keeps in the basement. Memories that he will pass along to nieces and nephews who won’t recognize most of the faces that are so very important to him. He knows. While Robert Frost might have written “Nothing gold can stay…” everything is gold if you view it that way.