Becoming A Little Old Man

I did not know I was in school. The old ones deliberately slid by, like an earthworm after a dreary and remorseless rain. My alternatives were to squish them, or scrutinize with wonder. Seniors mingled in variations, interfering with our plans. My undeveloped juvenile purpose was to skirt their paths, and get on with my perpetually urgent resolutions. They were the slow-moving caterpillars that would never metamorphize to beauty, but deteriorate in brittle creaking bones. They sluggishly traversed muted hurdles. I remember my ricochets of glances when their images passed in my rear-view mirror. And if I smelled anything it was undoubtedly not intentional.

The perspective of age has changed my comprehension through this archaic tale. I exist with the slithering others. We recognize each other as we pass through the backstreets of reality. We try to ignore the youthful spectators, in the same way that we tried to disregard the elderly when we were fledglings. Tottering on glass, we slide without focus. The lineup of survivors accept the place and move in unanimated enthusiasm. We are a bumping herd no longer labeled CHOICE and move en masse towards the slaughter house. We pay no attention to the resigned terminus. We no longer march, with eyes fixed front meeting the day. Our revelations have met many days, and the days have won. The pace is laborious, with heads bowed and bodies curved as if they had been beaten. They were, and the evidence is the product of what is seen. They focus on the inertia of trajectory, pushing softly until an obstruction occurs and re-direct delicately in another path. Scenery is limited to the reduced roads traveled. Browsing alternative avenues would be a dangerous idea. We concentrate on the singularity of paths, lest we get lost or incur a mishap, for we are experienced in casualty and calamity through the education of history.

I turn the page to me, as I am now an alumnus of the revered university of elderly men. My doctorate is duly earned through survival and stains of aching affliction and infirmity, my back slightly stooped, a lessening of hair, and a gathering of wrinkles and sagging skin. The speed of my movement has slowed to a crawl, assisted by a device, many times unnecessarily labeled “Handicapped.”

I am here, waiting for dismissal, and I am ready.

By Giulio Magrini

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