The illusion of the term is hardly big enough to cover up the reality. The years are not golden but dimming, confusing, difficult and lonely. My father’s doctor gave him a clean bill of health. “You have a good, strong pulse. As for the other complaints, I’ll do what I can to fix them, but most things are not fixable.”
The decline is sudden, noticeable, followed by a period of improvement, which brings hope, soon to be shattered. Unlike birth, which makes a clean break from the womb, the return is often filled with lingering and sadness.
“What to do?” Father asked me. He is forever purposeful.
