We all grow old, unless we’re unlucky. If we’re
very lucky, we also keep our health. When I was young, I thought that old people
and sick people were somehow on life’s shelf, measuring out their days in
patience, waiting for the end. Sex and fun were for the young and healthy.
At the time, I thought that people of forty
were old, and that anyone who had anything worse than a cold should be in the
queue for euthanasia. I now freely admit I was wrong. As age and infirmity have
staked their claim on my body, I have remained determined to enjoy my life. I
still drink wine, I still love chocolate, and I still delight in the pleasures
of the flesh. If my younger self could see me now, she’d be appalled, and
perhaps disgusted.
I’m sorry, Rosebud, Rose is loving what’s
left of her life. My petals are no longer crisp and dewy, my leaves might be spotted
and wilting, but I still look forward to the visit of the passing bee. Perhaps the youngest
and fittest bees are buzzing away into the distance, looking for the brightest
and finest blooms, brimming with nectar and powdered with pollen, but there are
still bees for me. I love those bees, and they love me.
Be my bee, and I can be your Rose. There will
be no seedlings from our union, but that should never stop us from
coming together. There is more to the flower and the bee than productive
pollination. Drink what is left of my nectar, and I shall enjoy the touch of
your tongue. As our day wanes, let us make the most of the last of the light. I
may be old, and infirm, but I am still here, and still able to love.
