Everyone Ages

So it turns out that everyone gets older. I guess I should have realized this before, but it never really struck me until I sat next to my mom in the car and held her hand, one morning, on the way to seminary. Somehow, I’d always felt like mom was immune to the passage of time and space. I would grow old, have children, wrinkle, and crust up, and mom would always be around, in her own, genuine body. I held mom’s hand and realized that some people think of her as a grandmother. I mean, of course they do. She is a grandmother. She has seven beautiful, wonderful grandchildren and I have seven beautiful, wonderful nieces and nephews. But she’d always been a young grandmother. One day, it won’t be, “My mom’s a grandma.” “You’re mom’s a grandma? But she looks so young.” One day it will be, “My mom’s a grandma.” “Oh, how sweet. She’s playing with her grandchildren.” And of course. That’s how it’s supposed to work. You are born onto this earth to age, to be tested, and then to leave. I guess I’d never factored in the questionable existence of others’ passages through time. How is it possible that I’m not the only one growing old? And so, I sat there across from K.B. at the kitchen table after practice, while he sang “Happy Birthday” and kept whispering for the others to yell “Surprise!” and I realized, I’ve hit it. The age I was waiting for, for so long. And why? Why was I waiting for it? Is it the beginning of my maidenhood? Am I suddenly a widow, and this is when I realize it? I’ve been waiting to celebrate this birthday for more than six years and, now that it’s here, I’ll I want to do is crawl under the covers. Or smile sweetly at people and place my loving, warmed, wrinkled, liver-spotted hand upon theirs and reassure them of their self-worth. Or just watch the snow fall. Last year, in Global, Ms. Keany told the class about the conversation she’d had with our old teacher, Mrs. Campbell-dowe, about souls being young or old, no matter the body. She said that she and Mrs. Campbell-dowe, well, they could tell when someone had an old soul, just by looking at them, by watching the way they took on the world. I sat there in my Global class, surrounded by all of my young friends and acquaintances, and whispered to myself and Ms. Keany, “Ms. Keany, I’m an old soul.” But, on the eve of the eve of the eve of the eve of the eve of the eve of my birthday, I’m beginning to wonder just how old I am. Is my feeling like an old soul just an indication of how young I am? Or does it really mean that my heart and my eyes have felt and seen enough to last me a lifetime, that my body is saturated with pain and worry and love and need and living, enough that I’ve already lived the time I’ve been allotted. I used to wonder who would want to marry an old soul like me. Now the question is, just how old am I? How do you measure the life of a person? How old can you be when you stare out from my eyes to look at the world?