Some find ageing a beautiful part of life, particularly if done with their beloved by their side. Most are rather afraid of the idea, and I don’t blame them.

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Loss of agency, autonomy.

 

Loss of various bodily functions, or physical ability we’ve always taken for granted.

 

Loss of endless, idle time.

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To lose all that is terrifying, but never more so than the loss of another’s smile, another’s laugh. Or the memories of them, the moments you’d spent together, now lost to crashing waves against the void as you inevitably follow behind their fading footsteps. The passing of time is easy to ignore until you’re staring it right in the face. 

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The tattered state of my grandmother’s mind was only natural; the inability to live up to the person I knew her as, the inability to even remember who that was.

 

Yet last night I happened to take a glance at a photo of her -- ten years past and looking ahead into the camera, the future, and I had to take pause as this revelation rocked me along my axis.

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The difference was astounding; perfectly coiffed brown hair versus the remaining thin strands of white-grey. Plump, tanned skin pulled in a bright-cheeked smile versus unfocused lips downturned with confusion. Dark eyes framed by wisdom versus…

 

The only part that remains the same are her roaming hands. They always find a way back to me, patting, light and gentle and feeling with callouses.

 

The smooth dips between her knuckles and translucent veins beneath form the drawing boards for my own fingers, gratified by the feeling of her thinned skin and rough, blunt nails.

 

I’ve never been particularly scared of ageing beyond the responsibilities that come with maturity. But whatever existing fear there may have been has now lessened regardless.

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As long as there remains my memories of her giving hands and the love she held between each crease of her palms, I wouldn’t ever mind the shakiness sure to come to mine.