When you surpass a certain age, you start epitomizing history.
The wrinkles of your skin are remnants of smiles and worries and most of all memories. The greying of your hair stands for stress, struggles and problems from an era that time itself forgets as life moves on.
The youngfolk think you’re moving too slow. You’re stuck – confined to a walker or the stagnation of arthritis or the perils of becoming senile or, most likely, the ghosts of friends long gone.
But you don’t see it that way. The ladies always pose with a hand resting ever so slightly near their hearts. The men cast their eyes downward. Everyone’s a little more humble, a little less aggressive and a little more vulnerable. You only speak more softly, more slowly, because you’ve learned to appreciate life enough, that you don’t have to speed up.