Birthdays

«How old are you?» I ask. «Fifty-seven,» she says with calm surprise after some reflection that this number, this age reflects a life she has to somehow accept. Behind her smile and wrinkled eyes I see what fifty-seven look like. Retirement was not the dreamed joy. She has no personal hobby to master. No more dreams to pursue. TV is running out of interesting shows. Technology is so confusing. Tedius heat day after day. The sick, helpless mother she imposed herself to nurse full time. The uncertainty of an unfaithful husband. A soon-to-be-announced limited Estate pension. Fully grown-up daughter and son who would not marry nor bear children. «What does it feel, being fifty-seven and all?» «Old,» she says apologetically. «Dinner awaits,» I say after a brief hug. We go down stairs in silence. A svelte scent fills the first floor. At the table, a glass pitcher full of flowers. My dad’s gift. After her father’s death, she said that flowers were not for decorating the dead but for the living to appreciate. Maybe that’s her way to overcome the losing of life. Maybe fresh flowers remind her the meaning of feeling alive.