Breeding and Writing: I don’t know what to call this

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–by Tracy Lucas

 

I’m tired of worrying. Life is hopeless.

I draw enjoyment out of the little things I’m supposed to (my son’s laugh, the fact that I woke up breathing again today, the taste of warm cookies and cold milk), but I have this choking sense of mortality lately.

My body is getting older and starting to betray me.

I’ve treated it like shit. It should.

But the lack of surprise doesn’t change the fact that my visible decay scares the hell out of me. There are random grey hairs. Wrinkles like leather on my knuckles. Carefully-guarded cellulite spots. Stabbing joint pain where there didn’t used to be, stress headaches brought on by even happy sounds and good music, floaters in my eyes, and favorite foods I suddenly can’t stomach.

I’m fucking aging.

And I don’t want to.

I know most folks here probably don’t listen to country music (and I don’t ALWAYS, so don’t look at me like that), but there’s a song to tell you about. It’s a fairly old one, mid-90s, I think. “Back When We Were Beautiful“, by Matraca Berg.

Lyric snippet:

“I don’t feel very different,” she said, “I know it’s strange.
 I guess I’ve gotten used to these little aches and pains
 But I still love to dance;
 You know, we used to dance the night away
 Back when we were beautiful, beautiful, yes.”
 ~~~~~~~~~~~
“I hate it when they say I’m aging gracefully
 I fight it everyday. I guess they never see.
 I don’t like this at all,
 What’s happening to me…”

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This is what time is.

There is no coming back. No waiting.

It’s all now, and it isn’t promised.

I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Lightning could strike; it does that sometimes. Maybe there’s cancer in my veins and I don’t know it yet.

I’ve always thought I would die young, in fact. I’ve long dreamed it. I think I even know how.

But now I have a son. And who’s going to tell him shit if I’m not around? Who will tell him my grandfather’s secrets or what he said every night at bedtime or why I make carrot bread at Thanksgiving, and where the recipe really came from? How will he know the games we played and the dozens of etched anecdotes that came before his cognitive capabilities, if I’m gone?

And I will be. We all will be.

Our bodies are each disposable, and there’s no avoiding it. It could be now, it could be later, or we could all go together in some massive disaster-moviesque blitzkrieg extravaganza.

I don’t know where the time goes. I’ve been desperately grasping the holes where it used to be, clawing to save bits of burnt straw.

I wish I could leave myself behind in notebooks, which has been the goal, but really, who will care? There are notebooks the world over we’ve never read, and never will. We’re too worried about our own selves. We don’t have time to learn each other fully on only one trip through.

Everyone wants to be remembered.

Everyone we’ve forgotten wanted that, too.

But time is so, so limited. And we break.

There’s nothing to do with our time but share it.

Ever.