Golden Years

Countless times, I've heard it said, the golden years aren't what they're cracked up to be. Kind of brassy, in fact, sometimes.

There's a little girl in every old woman. One who remembers what it felt like to be excited to go on a date. One who remembers the dreams that didn't come true as well as the ones that did. One who thought she'd sit peacefully in a chair along side the love of her life and while away the hours while knitting a masterpiece.

There's a little boy in every old man. He loved to dance around the room when he was excited and happy. When he grew up, he loved to dance with his lady and build things with his hands. He expected his strength to last, he knew it would.

In every old man and every old woman, there's a young person like you and I who is shocked to find that nothing on earth could have prepared them for the odd sensations they feel, for the dimming of the eye or the dampening of sound; for the pains that have no explanation or the way morning becomes evening so fast, yet so slow.

Each longs to be seen for the young lady they were and are, the young man who's still there, with eyes of friendship, compassion and respect. To hear a tone of voice that says, "you're equal, you matter". To love and be loved.