I’ve been seeing ghosts today. I was searching for something specific, buried deep within some sorry-looking boxes in a cluttered closet. To locate this one item I had to sift through numerous relics from different eras. I couldn’t help pausing to consider each piece that grabbed my attention. And found that these fragments had me recalling vivid memories…encapsulated episodes rushing back in full detail after just a cursory glance, like watching long-forgotten home videos. The photos I found may have been the most startling. How could we have aged so much in just ten years? My Dad, my friends, myself…did we really look that young? Though when I think of my Dad I have an unchanging image of him permanently stuck in my mind…from when he was in his 30s, not much older than I am now. He was a little thinner, a little more spry, with a full head of thick black wavy hair. He still has the thick wavy hair, though now it’s pure silver. Even a decade ago, it seems, it was salt and pepper. Heavy on the pepper. Seeing these changes in him is somehow stranger, and more alarming, than looking back at photos of my brother…who didn’t make it beyond eighteen. My brother remains fixed in a much too short span of time, aging only through childhood and on to the verge of adulthood. Each memory I have of him is complete and constant, with the few photos I have of him matching those memories perfectly. But with my Dad…I find myself surprised every time I see him. He is aging. No getting around it. I realize that it’s a natural part of life, but I don’t have to like it.
