and if i wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled it's because my pants always sag. I do actually have to roll up the cuffs to mop the kitchen floor. But I'm sure Eliot had something more profound in mind.
I think a lot about being old any more. I'm going to be 46 this year, and while there are certainly older people about, this seems old. My son sean turns 18 saturday, and graduates from high school soon. I'm past the age where anyone would consider me young -- now i'm merely a case of arrested development.
If I'm lucky, I've already lived half my life. If not, much more than half. I'm not afraid of dying, but more I'm afraid of too much of the good stuff having already happened. I ride the university campus bus every day and am surrounded by people who haven't peaked yet, who haven't had their possibilities attenuated down to a few choices. If anything that's what I miss about being young -- the idea that you've not yet made that bed you'll be forced to lie in, that anything could happen.
If I dwell too much on this sort of shit it gets pretty bleak and maudlin, but none of it can really be denied -- everyone face this. There's a lot of things that at this point I'll never get to do, or never get to do again. And all the things that matter to me will be gone, or of no consequence to anyone, once I'm gone.
Going to my grandmother's house after she'd died brought that home. The ridiculous prints of Blue Boy and Pink Girl from the guest bedroom were gone, bric-a-brac frames and all. I doubt anyone even knows where they went, but they meant something to her since she had them on the wall at that house for nearly 40 years. She collected tea cups -- well she was mormon, so they were for hot chocolate parties with the grandkids -- and had a bunch of really elaborate ones that I saw on the shelves for nearly 40 years. I got one china cup out of the collection and my vulturous relations I'm sure split the rest of them up. She had a thing for glass chickens too -- I don't know what to call them, but they were bowls like a nest, with a glass chicken for a lid.
But all that stuff is gone, and no one else will really bring the affection to those things that she did. I mean she was famously loving with her children and grandchildren, and that really is a huge legacy that all of us will always remember. But those little idle preoccupations that gave her life it's small everyday pleasures evaporated with her, and no one else will ever take them up in quite the same way.
I don't have any uplifting conclusion to slap on this essay, or anywhere really I'm going with it. I guess I'm just sad and pissed off that life is so impermanent. It's not fair. Of course nothing is, but still.