Grow old with me.
The best is yet to
be.
An old saying and a
lovely one. It comes with a picture of a couple joining hands at the
beginning of a long road and walking it together, gathering
experiences and wisdom along the way, enjoying the satisfaction and
perspective of what they’ve learned. Once they’ve arrived, their
shared memories gather daily around them like chicks that nestle
reliably into their palms—warm, pale yellow, and chirping. They
take them up together, exchange knowing glances, and smile.
Grow old with me.
The best is yet to
be.
Growing old
together, done well, is a privilege. Common reflection brings joy.
Even shared distress deepens and strengthens life’s fabric when
looked at in the perspective of its survival. The promise of growing
old together is so compelling that it can sometimes be the lifeline
that makes youth survivable, but noble plans don’t always bloom
into reality.
Sometimes people
stop growing old.
Today is my
birthday. Happy birthday to me. I have not stopped growing old.
But you have.
I’m 68 today and
this is the first day that I’ve been older than you. You never got
to be 68. You died at 67. You let go of my hand and stopped growing
old with me.
The walk looks
different now, and the country I walk through not cushioned any
longer by companionship. Separation doesn’t steal accomplishment or
memory, but it does bring a harshness, as though stepping off a soft,
yielding garden path onto one of unreliable stone. Every step rings
with reminders of what was and lost opportunities of what might have
been.
Grow old with me.
The best is yet to
be.
That won’t happen
now. Not ever. There will be no side by side rockers on the front
porch, no pair of deck chairs in the sun, no great grandchildren
scattered at common feet.
But something does
remain. The promise, I believe, is not broken. It will simply be
fulfilled in a way we didn’t ask for or expect. We may not grow old
together hand in hand, but as I grow older alone, I bring something
of you with me.
More than memory,
less than flesh, the mystery that made your heart beat, your courage
endure, and imagination soar still surrounds me. That remains. No
hand reaches out to take mine any more, but I hold you nevertheless.
A happy end still
waits. The second part of the promise stands.
After my own days
are fulfilled, I will walk into that same open country you now
wander, a place of perfect intimacy, of unending companionship.
Remind me, please.
On lonely days, or on hollow ones, when my arms feel hard the
emptiness.
Tell me again.
The best is yet to
be.
