Turning Seventy-five
It isn’t that I feargrowing older—such things as fear,reluctance or desireplay no part at allexcept as light and shadow sweep a hillsideon a Sunday afternoon,astonishing the eye but passing onat sunset with the landstill unchanged: the same rocks,the same trees, tall grass gently drifting—merely that I do not understandhow my age has come to meor what it means. It’s almost like some smallforest creature one might findoutside the door some frosty autumn morning,tired, lame, uncomprehending,almost calm.You want to stroke its fur,pick it up, mend the leg and send itscampering away—but somethingin its eyes says, “No,this is how I live, and how I die.”And so, a …