When I was younger, I regarded growing older (and eventually dying- even though I hadn't fully comprehended the concept back then) as a gradual but very specific process. It involved going to a specific place which, at least to my very specific ten-year-old mind, was like an enormous library, and on each trip returning something.
Every day, I imagined, the getting-older people would enter the building, approach the large reception desk behind which sat a very kindly old person of indeterminate age, and they would receive boxes of various sizes to put things in. Imagine the security check at the airport, except in my version there would never be a queue; and the items, once in the box, were never returned. There was always some nice calming music playing in the background. Nobody really spoke; it was a silent and solemn place, but not a sad place. People would just arrive in a steady stream, place their things in these boxes, and as soon as this wordless transaction was complete, they would be on their way again; a little older, a little lighter, a little bit closer to the end.
What would go in the boxes? This was where my imagination took a slightly bizarre turn. Nothing physically went in- it was a mostly ceremonial process, almost like a rite of passage. For example: The ability to hear went in, but ears didn't. The ability to walk went in, but legs didn't. Memory went in, but the brain itself didn't.
The other thing about this process was that while some of the timing was pre-determined, everyone who turned up could actually choose to keep some of the things they had originally come in to return. This is a strange detail, I know, but it is my imagination after all. No-one really knew they could do this though, so it all came down to how badly they wanted it.
So while there would be some who came and returned everything they had at the first time of asking, others would hold on to the things which mattered most to them. I reasoned that this was why some people seemed to change almost overnight- it was because on their first visit they'd asked for the biggest box and packed it all in. In had gone the smiles, never to be seen again, and so too empathy, imagination, sometimes even faith and hope. They had emerged from out of that library as emptied-out shells of their former selves, with nothing left to live for.
So why am I talking about all this now? It's because my 97-year-old grandmother recently made a few more trips to this place. A few more trips, a few more things given back. A few steps closer to being fully returned. But more important than what she gave back, is what she chose to keep. Yes, she gave up her eyes a good few years ago, but she kept the child-like wonder, she gave up her teeth, but not her laugh. She gave up almost all of her strength, but not the will to live.
Which is a very good thing, because even after all the lights go off, I will still see her face, with that unmistakable twinkle in her eye, and the kindest, most beautiful smile that no box, library or imagination could hope to contain.
Every day, I imagined, the getting-older people would enter the building, approach the large reception desk behind which sat a very kindly old person of indeterminate age, and they would receive boxes of various sizes to put things in. Imagine the security check at the airport, except in my version there would never be a queue; and the items, once in the box, were never returned. There was always some nice calming music playing in the background. Nobody really spoke; it was a silent and solemn place, but not a sad place. People would just arrive in a steady stream, place their things in these boxes, and as soon as this wordless transaction was complete, they would be on their way again; a little older, a little lighter, a little bit closer to the end.
What would go in the boxes? This was where my imagination took a slightly bizarre turn. Nothing physically went in- it was a mostly ceremonial process, almost like a rite of passage. For example: The ability to hear went in, but ears didn't. The ability to walk went in, but legs didn't. Memory went in, but the brain itself didn't.
The other thing about this process was that while some of the timing was pre-determined, everyone who turned up could actually choose to keep some of the things they had originally come in to return. This is a strange detail, I know, but it is my imagination after all. No-one really knew they could do this though, so it all came down to how badly they wanted it.
So while there would be some who came and returned everything they had at the first time of asking, others would hold on to the things which mattered most to them. I reasoned that this was why some people seemed to change almost overnight- it was because on their first visit they'd asked for the biggest box and packed it all in. In had gone the smiles, never to be seen again, and so too empathy, imagination, sometimes even faith and hope. They had emerged from out of that library as emptied-out shells of their former selves, with nothing left to live for.
So why am I talking about all this now? It's because my 97-year-old grandmother recently made a few more trips to this place. A few more trips, a few more things given back. A few steps closer to being fully returned. But more important than what she gave back, is what she chose to keep. Yes, she gave up her eyes a good few years ago, but she kept the child-like wonder, she gave up her teeth, but not her laugh. She gave up almost all of her strength, but not the will to live.
Which is a very good thing, because even after all the lights go off, I will still see her face, with that unmistakable twinkle in her eye, and the kindest, most beautiful smile that no box, library or imagination could hope to contain.
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