Watching My Son Watching Me Grow Old
Reflections from a distant mirror
There is something a little unusual in the age spread between my dad, me, and my son. We are each 40 years apart. My dad was 40 when I was born, and I was 40 when my son was born. I have a picture of the 3 of us when my dad is 80, I am 40, and my son is not even 1. I used to say that we are like those desert flowers that only bloom once every so many years.
Watching My Dad Age
When I was in my twenties, my dad was in his sixties. While I was just getting started with my life, he was preparing to retire. It was during this time I began to seriously contemplate his mortality, and what it would mean to me. I came to realize that my parents would not be around forever and that at some point in the not-too-distant future, I would have to be able to go on without them. My safety net would be gone, as would my source for advice on adult matters. When that time came, I would be truly on my own, and the world would be a darker place.
With that eventuality in mind, I began to take life a little more seriously. I knew the day would come when I couldn’t just go home and live with my mom and dad anymore. During that time, I took a factory job that paid well with the idea that I would put my savings away so someday I would have a down payment for a…
