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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
The man beside me is a kind, generous, loving human being who I have had the privilege to spend my life with. We are trying to enjoy our crawl to the finish line by doing what we can in our little New Brunswick town to brighten the lives of others. I am just now learning how to relax into this quiet life we have nurtured. There were too many days I wanted to run away, too many days I saw greener grass elsewhere, too many days I fought off his love and acceptance in search of a more “exciting” life.
I am in my 60th year. My husband of 35 years sits beside me in the chair he has claimed as his own. Between us is an old wooden chest that belonged to my grandmother. There is one leg missing. It is propped up with a copy of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. I have read this book many times and instead of reading his brilliant truisms one more time I figured I would put his book to a more practical use.
On the chest is a tablecloth that hides old rings from hot coffee and tea, white shellac from too much moisture, cat scratches and dents. There are many things on the chest: three remotes, my journal, two novels in various stages of completion, a box of tissues, chewing gum to curb our desire to snack, a bottle of Biotene spray to combat dry mouth caused by our various medications, a large bottle of no-name Tylenol that we refer to as “Skittles,” an octopus of cords to charge the laptop, our iPhones and Bose speaker.
There is my notepad where I make notes in a feeble attempt to counteract my failing memory. I write down the shows we are streaming so we can remember which ones we have finished and which ones we just started. I write lists, thing to do, names of people I want to remember, dates of upcoming events that I transfer to our paper calendar that hangs on the fridge.
There is a newspaper with a sudoku, word search and crossword puzzle in various stages of completion. There is a glass half full (or empty depending on the day) of water and white fluff from the stuffed toy our golden retriever just murdered on the floor right in front of our eyes. There is a little pouch of hearing aid batteries because we are both “hard of hearing” now and a container of toothpicks for the pocket full of food remnants created by our receding gums.
All these things are here between us to minimize our need to get out of our chairs
The floor at our feet is littered with peanut shells, crumbs from the supper we just ate on our laps, pet hair and the absence of a will to care about the mess any more. Charlie, our cat, is on the arm of my chair staring at me for a scratch and purring so loud it is almost embarrassing. The Jeopardy! theme song plays in the background, providing the music for the closing credits of our day like every other evening.
I guess this is where some marriages end up. My husband has just completed his second round of chemotherapy for lymphoma, and I am high as a kite on weed to help forget about the pain from a bum shoulder and a migraine. We are both retired high-school teachers. We did our time in the trenches of education, followed all the rules, got into the real estate market at the right time, saved money, raised two children and draw on our pension.
We lived through the pandemic, a cancer diagnosis, the collective guilt of our generation as the doomsday clock of a climate crisis we created reaches the point of no return. The news is full of doom and gloom and we both worry about the world our offspring will face.
When I glance at the two of us in our housecoats watching Jeopardy! I can’t believe how fast we got here. Inside I still feel like I did as a child. I still want to climb trees and am surprised when I open our shed door and my blue bike with the high handlebars, tassels and a banana seat isn’t leaning against the wall waiting for me to take it for a spin.
Maybe this is what getting old is all about, settling into what is here in this moment. It is easier now (for us at least) because all the worrying about our future is over. This is our future. It is watching the birds at the feeder and laughing at the antics of squirrels, going to the thrift store to buy stuffed toys for our dog to disembowel and, when necessary, sharing a face mask as we take turns going into stores for Metamucil and rolling papers.
Melanie Craig-Hansford lives in Hampton, N.B.