75

It hasn’t been too long since sales clerks, pharmacists, and service people began explaining things to me that need no explanation. When I checked out at my favorite thrift store on Tuesday, I forgot to ask for my Seniors’ Day discount. When I turned around on my way out and said, “Oh, wait, I’m a Senior,” the young woman said, “Oh, I already gave you the discount!” When I glanced at my receipt, there it was, the 30% discount.”

I am seventy-five years old. I’m not in love with it. I just don’t know what to do with it.

Oh, people still tell me I look younger than seventy-five, but the guy at the nail salon said he thought I looked more like sixty-five. He thinks that’s a whole lot better?

Now seventy-five, I estimate that at least three-quarters of my life is gone. If I lived to be my father’s age when he passed, I would only have fourteen years, or if I lived as long as my mother, eighteen years.

I can’t seem to get to the question I need to ask myself, “What will you do with these, [gulp], remaining years?” I get stuck on what if I only live to be 80. Then I am so sad, I cannot find any other questions.

I don’t want to leave this precious, troubled, wonderful, chaotic, green, climate-threatened, beautiful, war-torn world. I want to see change in my well-loved country: less hate, less hunger, less killing. My children and grandchildren would be fine without me, but I’m not finished looking at them, cheering them on, and loving them with this unequaled passion that began when the first infant sounds pushed from my body.

Most of the time, the questions arise when I feed my fish in the early mornings. I sit on the rock wall of the pond and gaze through a dense thicket separating our house from a busy thoroughfare. I note the birdsongs; I hear Cardinals order “Beer, beer, beer” and “Chip, chip, chip!” House finches cheep and warble a trill. Robins peek and tut before announcing, “Pretty, pretty, pretty.” Crows caw and caw louder to warn of a present hawk. Sometimes owls call to each other across the trees.

I am scared, weak, and afraid of the quick passing of time—something most people would never see in me.

I never imagined seventy-five, but the digits are mine. I don’t want to return to my twenties, or anything like that. I just want to be…for longer.

Okay, I’m ready for the question. What will I do to max out my days, months, and years? Or as Mary Oliver says, “What will [I] do with [the rest of] this wild and precious life?”

I’m working on my answers. They’re endless, so I know I must begin the tasks before I finish the list.

I plan to exhaust this endless love inside me, even though I know Love always creates more love. I’ll watch and listen until I need to sleep. Lookout, Beauty, I’m going to catch you and hold you in the Light. And Joy? I’ll choose you every day, even those when you seem far away. If I can’t reach you, I’ll make you.

Watch me, World. Slow down, and let me hug you every day.