Bright Side

 Creeping toward yet another birthday, I found myself thinking of my parents. The ones that brought me into this world. Last year I rounded the bend on the lifespan of my father. I have now taken up a spot on this watery ball of rock longer than my old man was able to. I still have a score plus to catch up to mom. 

So here I am, with time left on the clock, I have to consider how I'm going to spend it. Back when I was ten, I looked at life very differently. The world was full of opportunities. Amusement parks. Motorcycle rides. Junior High School. When I was twenty, there were still frontiers to explore. College. Career. Marriage. At thirty I was gassed up and ready to go to California. College was in the rearview. Marriage was imminent. Career was still a series of jobs away.

At forty, the career was getting locked down. My wife and I had a son. We named him after my dad, who had passed on by then. Life, by then, had begun to slow down. Which was about the time I started hearing my mother complaining, periodically, about feeling the need to stop. Stop taking up space. Stop being underfoot. Stop living. 

At fifty I had solidified my place in education. I had lived long enough in one home to build things in it and around it. Replaced them as they fell apart. Because that happens when they get old. 

At sixty, my mom left this world. My son had moved out on his own adventure. And my life began to look like a third act. There was a lot of talk about making plans for retirement. How to finance that last stretch? 

And suddenly I found myself wondering if my mother had felt any of this ennui after she turned sixty. With so much left to be done? Looking for the bright side.