Honoring my Mother: Ode to youth on a weekend

Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head. Ugh, that Beatles song again.

It’s another weekend morning. With a hangover starting to threaten in my head, as the direct result of last night’s drinking frenzy, I the zombie, slowly (and painfully) make my way to the corner store to buy some eggs and veggies for breakfast. Let me correct that; because my son’s classmates are coming over to cook food in under an hour for their school picnic this morning, I’m buying extra veggies and extra eggs so we could cook and prepare breakfast for all of us. The sun’s not fully out yet but I’ve got my handy shades on, just in case it suddenly bursts out from the gray clouds above and shocks these sleepy eyes out of their socks, er, sockets.

With my successful purchase safely tucked in my arms, I’m headed back home when suddenly, two kids run out of a neighbor’s open gate, gleefully shouting Marvel battle-cries and acting out a weird slow-mo sword dance. For a moment, my uneventful trudge towards home is broken by an accepting and bemused smile that seems to imply, “Ah, the wild abandon of being young!” Just looking at these kids at play at such an early hour has stirred up an envious feeling that directly cries out for my longing for more energy and staying power (and I’m not talking about Viagra folks).

Waking up and sprite-jumping out of bed has been one of the missed things I had not done in a long while. Time was when I had early morning runs, which were slowly reduced into morning walks, until… nothing. Nowadays, waking up also means rousing the aches and pains that you slept with the night before, like an insistent and clingy lover demanding an extra hug. The alarm clock, that seemingly immortal device created to haunt you every morning, had also totally turned against me.

My mindset is still stuck at a time when 30 or more years ago, I could play tennis all day and just need a good night’s sleep to recover. Speed and reflexes, those collateral victims of age, still linger, but now only as memories, while I wish I could still run all day like a colt and wield my racquet as if it were a magic wand, smashing enemy orbs left and right.

But enough of the remorse. This is really all about celebration. As I’ve seen with babies and youngsters alike everywhere, watching the gift of youth at full gallop always brings to the surface a strange feel of pure satisfaction, especially when viewed through the eyes of one who now dwells in fading sunlight. That sight is also of hope, that the cycle of life is a constant wheel where all play their dedicated parts as mere cogs towards our grand performance as one race in this creation.

Posted in Opinion