i revel in being old. But i don’t feel old, other than the aches, pains, stiffness, and waking up in the middle of the night because i have to pee.
i’m sitting here wondering why the hell i beat myself up for not doing more, not having more, not being all i expected to be or all others expected to me.
Then, sitting alone with one lone reading lamp on in the dark of night, i laugh. Out loud.
Next door, the daughters of the wonderful neighbors from Ciudad de México are playing with their friends around their pool. The sounds of young people laughing is music.
Maureen has gone to bed. It is quiet other than the laughter next door. Polaris in Ursa Minor hangs brightly about two points to port of Mount Miguel’s peak to the east, silhouetted by the lights of the city.
We went down the hill for dinner to a tapas bar and had short rib tacos and green style enchiladas with a delightful albariño. They even had Jimmy Smith’s organ jazz for background music. We came home, sat down, and read our books to Andrea Bocelli’s “Toscana” album. i stopped reading, leaned my head back, closed my eyes and just listened in the quiet.
The young folks next door have gone inside. In the quiet, it occurred to me i really am old. However, this is nothing to complain about. i have many friends. i have two wonderful daughters. i have a wife who understands me, puts up with me, and still loves me. i have my night.
And i am at peace.
i hear and read the ravings of friends and a whole bunch of others who seem to need to hate, who need to throw rocks over the wall, who seem to fear others, who fight change. i don’t understand and, consequently, will not find fault for they are my friends. i hope they can have the peace i have tonight.
Does that peace come with age? i don’t know. Tonight, it does not matter to me. Bocelli’s album has run its course. i have put my book aside and before picking this laptop up, i read Wordsworth. It is good to read Wordsworth. It seems he understood the world.