Time repeats itself through the transference of one role to another. To experience wisdom has become the reward for growing older. Let me explain:
My daughter is thirty-three. When I spend time with her, there is an invisible mirror raised. Time places her on one side while I stand on the other. The younger version and older version of shared DNA stares at each other. Vanessa cannot see my side of the mirror. She does not know what it feels like to be fifty-eight, carrying the decades of experiences that molded me into what I am today.
Her sight is fuzzy; she cannot see my wisdom from arriving at this plateau where I stand, forged from my mistakes and accomplishments. All my dreams and disappointments. The anxiety of raising my children until now they have their own. The price paid is evident by my wrinkles and gray hair. Meanwhile, at thirty-three, she is blonde with a smooth complexion. Her body parts are firm and mobile. I miss that younger version of myself, but that’s a different story.
I’ve got the advantage. I confess it is a lot easier being fifty-eight than thirty-three.
When I was thirty-three, life was ahead of me. I wondered and planned and strived for my goals with a determination that they would come true. Now at fifty-eight, I am able to look back at my life and feel grateful I survived the dark holes and worrisome stress that causes one to smoke, drink too much, and cry rivers. It’s my daughter’s turn to wiggle through the angst of life; there’s not much I can do but…well, buy her some clothes.
When I was thirty-three, my mother occasionally took me clothes shopping at a local department’s store. I knew our trips were a way to bond. Just the two of us looking in the sales rack. I didn’t have much money because I was a single parent which means any extra money for clothes goes to the children.
That’s why she would buy me something to help out my limited wardrobe.
My heart ached for my mother today. Without thinking about it, I called up my daughter and asked if she’d accompany me to the local boutique in town. I bought her a few pieces of clothing to vamp up her limited wardrobe.
In that moment, I was connected to Mom. I was myself. I was Vanessa at thirty-three, and we all swirled around as one person in the present.
I like being fifty-eight.
What will I feel like in twenty-five years at eighty-three? I don’t have the perspective yet.
