I am 58. I get a senior citizen discount. My feet are messed up. It takes awhile to sort out my back in the morning.
When I was fifty, I could still walk five miles without too much trouble. It all can fall apart so fast.
I feel pointless sometimes. I like hearing from you, though. You young women who have found your way to this blog. I like reading your writing, and if I don’t always agree with every thing you write, if I might quibble about nuances; really, I’d rather not.
You have a difficult road ahead of you, young women bloggers. I want you happy and glorious and confident, because that’s the best way to work. But you have to address how different the world is becoming. You will still be on the young side when I may well die, and the world will continue to suffer climate chaos, and the ever-increasing dilemma of refugees.
My generation, and those immediately before you, have left you a world coming apart at the seams. And yet, you come to my blog at times, as if I was water to drink.
I don’t know how to explain how that feels. I have no children. I live without human company. I am sad a lot. I am winding up.
I look at your writing, and I am reminded of joy. When I see your faces, it sears me. You will go on, one way or the other, beyond my death, beyond who knows how much death of others.
You are much of what matters these days, you young women bloggers. You are just getting started, and into dark places.
We have no business being angry at you, we crones. You have enough work on your hands as it is.
Blessed be, children. May you find a way out of this mess we left you with.
We did try. We will keep trying. We are not dead yet. We haven’t forgotten you. We love you. And we are so, so sorry that we didn’t fix it fast enough. It was a bigger job than we realized.