I’ve been thinking about age and life and death and growing up. There’s a pin I stuck to my car visor last year. It says, “What would an adult do?” There are those days when I wish I could be 27 again. 22 again. 19 again. There are days I wish I were older than my current 42, so I could bypass all the years of hard work still to come and just, finally, settle on that island and write my books. Not that life will ever be as easy as my dreams assume. Maybe I don’t even want it to be. Maybe I don’t want to miss out on all the lessons I still have to learn.
My kid turns 19 tomorrow. He’s an adult. At his age I was engaged. Before I was 20 – married. Divorced at 27. You know the story. It’s more common than not. But this guy, he’s going away to college on January 1st. He’s taking a Criminal Justice degree because he wants to help people. Because he thinks protecting us matters. He knows it will be hard. He understands he may break a little from the suffering he’ll witness. He’s so much more grown up than I.
My family celebrated my grandfathers 86th birthday on the weekend. He is wise and generous and funny and one of the great loves of my life. And he is suffering from dementia. My entire life I knew this man as the one person who was able to grow up without growing old. He would rather have spent time with us grandchildren or great-grandchildren than any adult. It seems appropriate that as the dementia takes hold, his mind has settled on that of a four year old. I cannot grieve for the grandfather we are losing. I can only embrace the spirit of childhood we have gained.
‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” ― Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit
Over the years, the teddy bear I received when I turned four lost most of his beige fur. Also, somewhere along the way I spilled wax all over his nose. I think half of his stuffing is gone. I still have him. He’s as real and important to me as my sons, and my grandfather. He’s aged well. He’s been loved well.
