...14, 15, 16, 17...
...25, 26, 27, 28, 29...
...38, 39, 40, 41, 42...
(yawn)...
...59, 60, 61, 62, 63...
...71, 72.
Seventy-two.
SEVENTY-TWO???!!
It can’t be!
Where did the time go?
It seems like just yesterday I graduated from high school.
It seems like just yesterday I got married.
It seems like just yesterday I watched my children playing.
It seems like just yesterday I became a grandfather.
My oldest grandson is now six feet, two inches tall and 17 years old.
Where did the time go?
It went where it always goes. It marches on.
And there’s not one blessed thing we can do about it.
Shakespeare talked about the seven ages of man in As You Like It, Act Two, scene seven. You know, the infant mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms and so forth all the way to second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. I know the drill; I figure I’m at about stage six out of the seven, which I’ll let you look up for yourself, and it’s no comfort, let me tell you.
Dylan Thomas told us, “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
That is definitely one approach. But I think F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best at the end of The Great Gatsby:
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
It’s not that I’m raging against the dying of the light or that I enjoy being borne back ceaselessly into the past particularly, it’s just that I can’t believe how soon this life is all over. I may live another 20 or 30 years, but still:
The doctor is IN. I recommend reading Psalm 103 every single day.
I also like to read Neil Theasby’s poem over there in my sidebar occasionally of an evening.
[Editor’s aside to Neil: You definitely now owe me. I have included you in an auspicious group that includes William Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. --RWP]
