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Memories and Regrets As time takes its inevitable toll on body and mind in these so-called "elderly" years, I indulge—perhaps too often—in the memories of a life richly experienced. I have decided the 1970s were probably the apex of it all. In those days I was the picture of vitality and health and there seemed nothing I could not accomplish. My mind was capable of absorbing vast quantities of information with relative ease, while my body indulged in multiple sports year round, even in the blazing heat of the North Carolina summers. I was deeply in love with a beautiful woman who had married me when only nineteen (I was twenty-three), and we owned a great dog whose devotion to us was unquestionable. Every evening when I returned from work to our little blue cottage by the ocean, the three of us would set out together towards the setting sun. My wife and I strolled along the water’s edge chatting comfortably about the day’s events, while our dog Foley trotted around happily sniffing and exploring. Hand in hand, we watched the sun drift down towards the sea, darkening predictably from yellow to orange, orange to red, and finally to a beautiful crimson. As it neared the water it flattened out like an overly ripe tomato and reached out towards the sea below. The sea reciprocated, and slowly the two merged. Then we watched the sun settle deeper into the ocean, gradually and inexorably, until only half remained, a quarter, eventually a fiery tip, and finally everything disappeared completely. Afterwards the sky took on a luminous glow where the sun had vanished, a bright yellow glow which increased with time, throwing out shards of orange, pink, red, and purple into the atmosphere—brilliant hues which reverberated across the clouds, pushing back the gathering darkness one last time, a final explosion of color … and then it was over. Darkness reigned. And I recall during one of these spectacular displays counting seventy-eight migrating pelicans flying low over the horizon in a perfect V formation. It was, and will always remain, an exquisite moment. But all good things must come to an end. Eventually the twin ravages of time and debilitating arthritis wore down Foley and we were forced to put him to sleep at age fourteen. A few years later my lovely wife chose another man, abandoned the marriage, and left me on my own. I felt cast out to sea. Not being one to allow the vagaries of life to dictate my future, however, I attempted to start anew. But an exceptional dog like Foley was not easily replaced, and the dating world proved to be a bewildering maze. My mother never warned me about such matters. She never said, "Son, the tollgates to tranquility are many and profuse." After a number of notable escapades with the "gentler" sex, the recitation of which would require a book-length memoir, I finally had to admit defeat. Some things, I realized, you simply cannot make happen. So, as I drift into my final years, I discover that the hope of youth is gradually being transformed into the resignation of old age. As the future contracts, the memories expand. Unfortunately, I am now beginning to wonder how accurate my memories really are. There is a chasm developing between myself and the person I once was, a chasm that yawns ever wider with time. Was it truly I who ran his fingers over the soft, white, perfect skin of that beautiful girl who loved me so completely? Was it I who tore madly over giant sand dunes and dove fearlessly into thundering surf in a vain attempt to escape the pursuit of the great Foley? It seems so long ago. As time continues, I know that some of these memories will even turn into fantasies—mere snapshots of my imagination. Perhaps this is a good thing. Accuracy is admirable for the young, but aging often ushers in a preference for mere comfort. In the end the memories and fantasies will join together, like a pleasant family, perhaps affording some of that comfort I have so vainly sought in my life. Eventually it all fades to nothing ... |
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