In my youth, I relished my responsive and (what I imagined) ever-replenishable vigor. Whenever I saw an older person, bent in frame and slow of gait, I oft presumed I wouldn’t face such a fate. My surmise, laden with arrogance and ignorance; compounded by a surfeit of misbelief about corporeal immortality.
Now, with time’s inexorable passage and the inevitability of aging, I follow and draw closer to the daily experience of the elder community of the human family. In this, my perspective necessarily is altered. So, too, my sense of what constitutes strength…
Yesterday, the town square was filled with people basking in the delight of a luminous, clear blue-skyed Sunday afternoon. Into my line of sight, a man, gray-haired, slight of frame, hunched over and with evident labor, pushing a wheelchair-bound woman, I presumed his bride, along an elevated sidewalk. His exertion, the very symbol, aye, realization of indefatigable devotion.
Instantly, my eyes misty, thinking of my bride, our wedding anniversary a week before, heavenward I whispered, “May my devotion daily as boundless prove.”
© 2022 PRA