My Lonely City

“It’s Friday? Are you sure?” Grandpa asks. He is now ninety-three, and we were at a lunch in his honor, with three of his daughters.

“Yes, Dad, it was your birthday yesterday,” said Peggy, the second-oldest, who now lives in Kansas.

“Oh. Are you sure?”

I’m not sure why it affected me so, but this exchange particularly struck me. I mean, birthdays aren’t really a big thing to me. I like getting the presents, of course, but I like just as well if not better just going shopping myself, or just eating dinner with my family for no “special” reason. But … I feel sorry for my grandfather because it is difficult for him to remember things – like what day it is – and that must be unpleasant. Frightening. Wearying. There are some similarities between advanced age and childhood, mostly related to the way that one’s interests seem to settle back in upon one’s self, one’s health, one’s wants and thoughts and fears. I hope, when I am aged, that I have a family who cares as much about me as my mother-in-law does her father.