The sun has come up and I am sitting by a window that is foggy with
the breath of a life gone by. I’m a sight this morning: two shirts,
heavy pants, a scarf wrapped twice around my neck and tucked into a
thick sweater knitted by my daughter thirty birthdays ago. The
thermostat in my room is set as high as it will go, and a smaller space
heater sits directly behind me. II clicks and groans and spews hot air
like a fairy-tale dragon, and still my body shivers with a cold that will
never go away, a cold that has been eighty years in the making.
Eighty years. I wonder if this is how it is for everyone my age.
My life? It isn’t easy to explain. It has not been the rip-roaring
spectacular I fancied it would be, but neither have I burrowed around
with the gophers. I suppose it has most resembled a blue-chip stock:
fairly stable, more ups than downs, and gradually trending upwards
over time. I’ve learned that not everyone can say this about his life.
But do not be misled. I am nothing special, of this I am sure. I am a
common man with common thoughts, and I’ve led a common life.
There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be
forgotten, but I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me
this has always been enough.
გადმოწერა
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