Antique Principles

I used to think that I would love growing old.

"Old age is just around the bend, and I can't wait to go gray,"

A lyric I always smiled about, that I thought I understood. But I'm reminded of the penalties old age inflicts on you, twenty four hours a week.

E, a leggy brunette who once had beautiful curls. On a good day, she'll smile when I wake her up for dinner, and her eyes will only get misty when I lay her back down. On a bad day, she'll shout at me, "Get of my room, I'm not going to school!" Or she'll cry until she's tearless, there's nothing I can do to ease her pain. I sob in the storage closet, pretending I'm not as attached to the ninety eight year old woman so close to the end. Perhaps, if I had never seen her on an extremely good day, when she conversed like a school girl with a playground crush, when she laughed hysterically because she thought I was going to throw her in the tub instead of get her out of bed, perhaps I would not care as much.

D, honestly the closest thing I've ever seen to a skeleton. Her lengthy gray braid tangles in her wheel chair when she tries standing up on her own. I've never seen anyone with so much determination, so much strength to hold on. Sometimes I forget she's not just a little girl, roaming the halls in her faded rubber duck pajamas. Until she slews out something witty and satirical, and I'm reminded of just how aged she's become.

E and A, the only married couple in the facility. Because of dementia on both parts, they only remember how much they care about each other at random intervals. My first realization of this was when I asked E a question. When she didn't respond, A tapped her on the shoulder and said "Your daughter is talking to you." I walked out, tears streaming and collecting in a pool around my collar bones.

I don't want to forget. I want to remember what it's like to be young.