At 77

February 26, 2005

The knees hurt and slow the walk.

The pitching arm is gone, barely enough left to play fetch with the dog.

The eyes still see well.

The ears, which constantly hear music, lose some of the bass tones.

The body is clumsy, slow and painful for no particular cause.

The voice is husky and without power, except in outrage.

The mind, thank God, is still there.

 

The mind is not perfect. Perhaps it never was.

It forgets a word here and there and it sometimes doesn't concentrate well.

Concentration, though, was always a problem.

The mind had too many distractions.

Tunes would block out thought. They still do.

Bits of poetry, remembered lines, Latin phrases learned in law school,

The ringing Declaration and the majesty of the Constitution,

John Paul Jones and Nathan Hale all distract.

 

The mind is unique. It is the me in me.

It still has its fierce causes. Its moral imperatives.

Whether it has changed much over the years is hard to tell.

It retains many of the lusts of youth, although to act on them would be laughable.

It cares about ball scores and roots from the home team.

 

Perhaps it is has gained wisdom along with experience.

Black is less black and white is less white.

Evil, however, is still evil.

Tolerance, it has learned, is a virtue that is the most difficult to abide.

 

Curiosity, an ancient aunt once said,

Enlivens old age

She was right. The need to know is more important now than ever.

There is not world enough and time to read what needs be read

Or see what needs to be seen,

Or, in this mind's case, hear what needs to be heard.

 

The mind insists that it has to speak.

It will not lie silent merely creating uncommunicated castles in air.

It has to laugh and share the joke.

It knows the limits of its own seriousness.

It knows pride in its present, not in its past.

It competes in endless games that reassure that it still functions well.

Chess was never better, although that is probably a function of the time spent.

 

The mind's principal failing is its need to assert that it is still there,

To be recognize as intact within the ruin of its physical existence.

It perceives slights from loved ones that grow in largeness never intended.

It faults itself, yet somehow this is the ferocity of age.

 

The mind knows its days are numbered.

Its world no longer seems without end.

The concern is not personal.

When the mind stops it believes it simply stops.

The concern, rather, is that the exterior world will go on

People with relations, country men and citizens of all countries.

The mind believes it knows some of their needs.

Its fantasy is that someday it will be Master of the Universe.

 

Alas, the mind recognizes the fantasy.

It does what it can to provide the cure

But knows that it will cease long before, if ever, the cure is found.