YOU WOULDN’T expect a young action man, a freelance outdoors sports and nature filmmaker/ photographer at that, to suddenly post a candid shout out on the advent of getting old. Must be musing about lost years. Nevertheless, an idol of mine, Gaspar Martinez-Aldama, wrote:
“One day, you will blink and a decade will have gone by. You will swear you were just 17, but suddenly you are 27. In the mirror, the chaos of youth fades into soft ache and slow mourning. You will hear an old song, and it will smell like your childhood…”
Many a time, I have watched the eyes of old men sparkle a bit more at the sight of their grandchildren. Now finding that I have become one among the senior citizens of a fast-fading world, I too often find myself eking out a tiny smile whenever I spy on the lovable antics of little children in my wanderings at the malls, lately with my son. Not only grandchildren, mind you, but it covers all the tiny bubbling little ones happily running about anywhere, all of whom, in a short time, I believe, will take over the new world pretty soon.
These are by no means sentimental musings. Aside from this close to bed rot creeping senility, many instances of small talk with fellow old farts replay constantly in my head, with tales of apos doing this and that. They never seem to end. Call it what you will, but the last things that go before brain fog sets in might as well be fond memories, and a large chunk of that, I am certain, relates to grandchildren. Years before our father passed on, all our Sunday forays at the old mothership were never without ice cream for the little ones, courtesy of the old guy.
In this coming, most celebrated day of the year, I foresee that overflowing of love once again being showered on the young of the world. As I always say, lest we forget, Christmas is for kids, and the call of peace on earth should not only be limited to the yuletide season, but for always.
Back to Martinez-Aldama’s post, the last sentence hits a major E chord in my heartstrings. The carol Silent Night always brings out that dark cloud over me. I spy smiling children posed before a well-lit Nativity scene at twilight, softly singing the song, but my mind is far away, imagining images of unsmiling Gazan children with tear-streaked faces looking blankly into space. So difficult to think in celebratory terms whenever I see our ornaments swaying free in the evening breeze.
