Longing for Youth Lost

Kurt looks down on his newborn great-great-grandson. He’s swaddled tightly in a blue blanket. On his head is a little beanie with blue, yellow, and green rocking horses. A Beatrix Potter mobile spins above him. Peter Cottontail and Benjiman Bunny had danced him to sleep with a sweet lullaby. The boy’s face looks peaceful, free of the daily stressors that the adult mind must sort through while slumbering. The baby is still, relaxed, cozy – the perfect sleep. It has been a long time since Kurt has had a sleep even half as good. His bladder isn’t what it used to be. His hips and knees have him switching positions every ten minutes. Sleep apnea is a devil of a thing.

His daughter sticks her head in the room and whispers, “Dad, dinner’s ready.”

Kurt puts some weight on his cane. He shuffles his way into the bathroom to wash up. He looks at the age spots on his wrinkled hands as water washes over them. They once held a rifle as he bravely stormed the beach at Normandy. He reminds himself that was eighty years ago. He lathers soap on his hands. They ache beneath the warm water. Those hands were once strong. They grasped a firehose for many years. He splashes water on his face. Looking in the mirror he no longer recognizes the man looking back at him. Instead of the strong jaw line he once possessed he now has the jowls of an old hound dog. His once slender nose is now bulbous, his most prominent feature. His ears are bigger than he could have ever imagined them being. They have more hair in them than he has on his head. His hair is nearly gone; white strands combed over a spotted dome. A mole has taken up residence on his forehead where it used to be smooth. He towels off his face and dries his hands. He takes one more look in the mirror. “Where have the years gone,” he asks himself. “What happened to the young man who had ladies lining up to dance with him?”

Kurt steps outside of the bathroom. He looks at the dining room table. The distance seems to increase the more he looks at it. His other great-great-grandchildren zip around the living living room. He admires their energy, but he knows that with one small bump he will be knocked off balance and fall. His fragile bones will break. That scares him. He finds humor in his fear. There was a time when he challenged the biggest boys on the football field to try and knock him off his feet. He once rushed for eighty yards for a game-winning touchdown. It was during homecoming. He was a local hero.

His great-granddaughter-in-law rounds up the kids when she notices Kurt standing there waiting patiently, smiling at the kids at play. She settles the kids in at the little table they set up for them in the kitchen. On wobbly legs Kurt begins his trek into the dining room. He finds it hard to believe that he once carried the love of his life across the threshold with those legs. Now his feet shuffle, hardly coming off the ground.  

Kurt slides into his chair at the head of the table. The traditional Thanksgiving spread looks amazing. He hopes he can get a taste of everything the girls worked so hard to prepare. New this year, his great-granddaughter-in-law wants to go around the table and say what they are thankful for this year. Kurt turns up his hearing-aid. He listens intently as everyone takes their turn. Kurt’s turn comes, and he says,

“I’m thankful that God has blessed me with another year. I’m thankful to be witness to eight generations of my family, from my great-grandparents to my great-great grandchildren. I’m grateful for a hundred years of life.”

His family finishes going around the table. They dish up the food and eat. Kurt gets to try a bite of everything but can’t finish his plate. He just cannot eat like he used to. By the time they are done with their pumpkin pie, it is late by his standards. He is nodding off in the recliner by the fireplace. The dry heat makes him feel as cozy and relaxed as the baby in the other room. His grandson decides it is time to get him back to the nursing home.

Kurt and his daughter say goodbye to the rest of the family. Neither of them drives anymore. His grandson drops him off first. He and his daughter escort him to his room. Kurt is not crazy about the nursing home. He is used to it though; it has been seventeen years. It’s a small room with a private bath. It’s not the same as being the king of the castle that you built with your own two hands.

Kurt misses his den where he watched the game every Sunday after church. He misses his garage where he and his son restored a ’47 Chevy. He misses caring for his lawn. It was the finest in the neighborhood. He misses having a dog. He has had several in his lifetime. All of them were faithful companions.

Kurt misses the days when the family gathered around his table. It hasn’t been the same since his wife passed away twenty years ago. He misses sharing a bed with her. He misses the days of coming home to the scents of her cooking. He misses the smell of her perfume. He misses the sound of her voice singing next to him at church. He misses how young she made him feel with her laughter.

Kurt sits on his bed. He takes off his shoes. He wonders when it became such a chore to change clothes. He used to undress and dress in a matter of seconds. Now he fiddles with buttons, zippers, and buckles like complex puzzles. Changing into his pajamas, it hits him just how tired he is. Days like today are draining excursions. He wouldn’t miss them for the world, but he’s not a young man anymore.

A knock comes at the door. A pretty young nurse comes in with a cart. It’s time for his medication. He looks over the nurse, thinking that in his day she might have had a chance with him. She’s chatty, but polite. She takes the time to help him into bed. As she leaves the room, she turns out the light. Kurt closes his eyes and wonders if he’ll see tomorrow.