Gravity

I lie about my age. I tell everyone I'm 26, when I'm really 27. I
guess it's not a lie as much as it is a mistake, a result of a
diminishing memory. I didn't think you were supposed to get old this
soon, but here I am, transfixed on it. I wonder when senility will set
in. 30? 35? I'm already losing my hair. Will my mind be next to go? Or
maybe my vision? Or perhaps the control of my bowels? There's nothing
like coming full circle, from bald to bald, diapers to diapers, mind of
a child to mind of a child. I suppose that's why they call it the life
cycle. I bet it was someone's inside joke.

I read once that old ladies' breasts become victims of gravity,
sagging, nearly at belly button level. I've seen it in action. Gravity,
with its cruel intents, removing all traces of vanity and replacing it
with forced humility. I wish to become weightless, immune to gravity,
and if possible, seriousness. When I was younger, I had a black
t-shirt, made by a skateboarding manufacturer, even though I did not
partake in the hobby. On the shirt, there was a funny drawing of an old
lady with boobs hanging just above her toes. "Old style," is what the
slogan read. Everyone got a merry laugh at that.

It's funny how context changes things. One minute we're laughing at the
notions of our skin stretching beyond it's normal limits. The next,
we're crying at our grandmother's funeral. Black shirts, regardless of
their drawings, remain unfunny.

I wake up in the dead of night with the dread that I have not lived as
I wish I had. I have recurring dreams of past loves, as if they are
calling to me from the past, to reconcile and repair all that I have
damaged. In the dreams, their breasts are not sagging. They are as they
once were. Young. Supple. Beautiful. I cannot see past my dreams, nor
can I dream beyond my past. It's perpetual bliss and agony, lemon and
tea.

I received a hospital bill in the mail today. I owe them eight hundred
dollars for repairing a busted lip. I remember my parents often telling
me, no matter how sick I felt, that it was never serious enough for the
hospital. It was not until now that I understood them.

I remember my father, watching me in my younger days, hands clasped,
elbows on knees, a look of concern and pride as I competed with others
my age. Now, I often find myself in that same pose anytime I worry.
It's my comfort pose. It's me, as my father. It's me, remembering him
crying just three times in 20 years, remembering that when he did cry,
it sounded as if he had really needed to for some time now.

Last year he died.

There I go. Lying again. He's not dead. In fact, I can't even convince
myself yet that he will ever die. My grandmother is still alive, but I
can envision it happening to her. Yet, I cannot predict how I will
react. I know that I would be sad, that I should be sad. I might be
angry. I might be all the things I've been trained to be, by magazines,
television, my experiences. But then again, maybe I'll surprise myself.
I am getting older, after all. I am losing my hair.

But I have not lost gravity. No, I am always falling, failing,
flailing, dreaming about my mistakes but never how to correct them.
Worrying that a cut might become an unsightly scar. Wearing novelty
t-shirts. Imitating my father and all else that I've seen. Obsessing.
Cycling. Living. Lying. Dying?

No. No one is dead for long.