He told me, "I can feed myself. Go sit over there."
He ate his entire lunch by himself.
You'd think I was talking about a two-year-old.
I'm not talking about a two-year-old.
But the edges of life curve toward each other. Bear a striking resemblance as they bend. I can guess what he was like at seven and five and two because I've known him at 87, 89, 91 (almost). The innate kindness, the silliness, the independence, the downright stubbornness of the old man is surely like the small boy.
There's no one alive who can tell me I'm right about him. No one alive who remembers ME at the age of two (sorry, big brother, I doubt you could paint a picture of my character from when you were three-and-a-half). And those who know me now--can they project who I might be were I to live another 34 years? Whoa, 34 years?
Will my sometimes-crankiness devolve into always-crankiness? Will my 'strong personality' (as many who know and love me call it) devolve into a downright judgmental, critical spirit that has no room for grace in it?
Or, should I live to sit across the room from a daughter-in-law who spends her days caring for me, will I become like wine that ages? Sweeter with time, better for the days that pass, more valuable than gold, and something so pure and true that all long to be near.
Like this man sitting across the room from me,
this man very like a two-year-old,
a sweet two-year-old. Kind and true and simple.
What will the days I live make of me?
What will your days make of you?