June 16th
Im not going to spend my days stuck with a decrepit old woman, bellowed my husband.
That was it! Enough! Graham slammed the bedside drawer, causing the cologne bottles to rattle. Im tired of hearing about aching joints and pills! I want to live, not rot away in this blasted hospital!
I stood in the doorway of our bedroom, watching Graham stuff his few belongings into a battered canvas duffel. Thirty-two years of marriage reduced to one rucksack and a carrier bag with his trainers. Strangely, that stung worse than anything he said.
Graham, I started quietly, Mum cant be left alone since her strokeyou know that.
Your mum, your problem! he barked, eyes glued to his bag. Im fifty-eight, not eighty! I refuse to turn this house into a care ward for geriatrics!
I flinched. Lately, youth and old age had become words that split us apart. Suddenly he was dyeing his greying hair, bought a mountain bike and a leather jacket. And then came Emilya thirty-five-year-old divorcee from the fifth floor.
Are you moving in with her? I asked, even though I already knew.
He spun around sharply. Something resembling shame flickered across his face, but was quickly replaced with stubbornness.
Yes. And you know why? Because with her I forget my age. She doesnt count my grey hairs or bang on about my heart. She just lives. Dont you get it?
Lives. The word landed right in my chest. I glanced at my reflectiontired and lined, mouth creased with new wrinkles. Once, Graham called me his beauty. That felt another lifetime ago.
Youre nearly sixty, Graham, I whispered. Do you really believe
What? he snapped, standing upright. That I dont deserve happiness? A new life? Plenty of men my age
Dash off to younger lovers? I let out a bitter smile. Yes, its a gloomy statistic.
He waved a hand dismissively.
There you go againdragging things through the mud! I just want to breathe, Rebecca. Why cant you understand that?
He zipped up his rucksack, the noise sounding like a judges gavel.
Tell your mum I wish her well, he muttered on his way out. Hope you two will be comfortable. You old friends, he hesitated but finished: You two old birds.
The door slammed shut. I sat on the bed for ages, staring at nothing, Grahams words echoing in my head: Two old birds. But Im only fifty-three. Is that really old?
From the next room I heard Mums feeble voice.
Becky? Has something happened?
Nothing, Mum, I managed to reply as I dragged myself to her chair. Grahams gone out. Errands, I lied.
It felt awful to cover for him, but I couldnt bear the thought of Mum blaming herself for yet another failed marriage in the family.
Days passed in a dull, grey stream. I settled into my ritualscooking, cleaning, looking after Mum. But I kept thinking: when did it happen? When did I stop noticing the wall growing between us?
I remembered first meeting Emily, the neighbour. Shed divorced not long ago, and wed often bump into each other at the letterboxes. Full of energy, always laughing, flouncing about in those colourful dresses. I even felt for herits hard being on your own with a child.
Then I saw Graham watching her: lingering by the window when Emily walked the dog, accidentally appearing outside, hanging on in the garage till late.
Darling, Mums voice cut through my thoughts, youve been washing that mug for half an hour. Wont you sit down for a bit?
I stared at the half-clean mug, lost by the sink.
Just a minute, Mum. Nearly done.
Becky, she lowered herself onto a chair, gripping it tight. I know whats going on. You dont have to lie to me.
Mum
Hes left you, hasnt he? Run off with whats-her-name from the fifth floor?
I nodded, eyes stinging with tears.
Foolish man, Mum said, her voice thick with wisdom. Do you know what happens to men pushing sixty? Its like madnessthey go searching for youth where they never had it.
Mum, stop
Why should I? Mum suddenly laugheda clear, ringing sound. Your father did the same at fifty-twofancied life was passing him by.
I stared at her, shocked.
Dad? You never told me
Why would I? She shrugged. He came crawling back two months later, tail between his legs. But by then Id moved on.
Really?
Just so, she winked. Those months I realised my life didnt end. I joined embroidery classes. Most of allI felt lighter, less burdened. More air to breathe.
She gazed at her handsold and speckled, but still deft.
The number of years isnt what matters, Becky. Its whats inside your heart. Im eighty-five, yet the same girls still kicking around inside.
A smile crept onto my face. Mum, despite her frailty, radiated such a vital spark. Was that why people always flocked to her?
As for Graham, Mum continued, he isnt fleeing from you. Hes running from himself. Fears getting old. Thinks being near a younger woman will make him young.
Youre defending him? My hurt threatened to boil over.
Not at all, Mum shook her head. I pity him. Because it never works. The years catch up with a person, whether they want them to or not.
Just then laughter sounded from outside. I looked out and saw Graham and Emily strolling in the courtyard, him carrying her shopping, her animatedly gesturing as she spoke. He gazed at her like a starstruck ladsomething inside me twisted painfully.
Dont torture yourself, Mum gently led me away. Lets have tea. Ive got some ginger biscuits.
Oh, Mumwhat do biscuits matter? My voice faltered.
Hes a fool, Mum said, her patience stretching infinitely. Thats his journey. Youll find yours. And you know what? Tomorrow well walk in the park. You wouldnt recognise it since they redid it.
I nearly protestedoutings the last thing on my mindbut something in her voice stopped me. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to simply live.
The park surprised me. After its renovation, it brimmed with new walkways, fountains, neat benchesthe centre of it held a busy arts centre where music drifted on the breeze.
Look at this, Mum stopped by a noticeboardtheres a poetry club and a ballroom class. Oh! Yoga for seniors!
Mum, I grimaced, dont tell me you
Why not? She arched her brow cheekily. Im still spry for my age!
To demonstrate she swept her arm out dramaticallyher cane slipped and crashed to the ground.
Oops, she blushed.
Allow me, a soft male voice offered.
A distinguished man in his sixties returned the cane with a slight bow.
My pleasure.
Thank you, Mum coloured. Very kind.
Edward Palmer, he said. I run the poetry group here. You seem interested in the programme?
No, were just I started, but Mum cut in.
Of course! My daughter writes wonderful verseher poems were even printed when she was at college.
Mum! I reddened in embarrassment. That was ages ago.
Poetry isnt bound by time, Edward replied kindly. Would you care to join us? Were discussing new works today.
Thats how I found myself swept into the poetry group. Id only come to humour Mum, but instantly felt at home. The smell of books, low voices, attentive facesa world where age and looks truly didnt matter, only ideas and feeling.
Soon enough, there was a poetry evening. Small, informal, yet I felt nervous as a schoolgirl at exams.
I read my poemsabout love, loss, and how life persists after hurt. Each line loosened something inside me, until finally I felt alive again.
Walking home, I ran smack into GrahamEmily by his side, though hanging back. He hovered awkwardly, like a chastised child.
Becky, you look wonderful.
I met his eyes, surprised to find no painjust calm, deep weariness.
Thank you, I replied, steady. Is that all?
No, listen, he stepped closer. I wanted to explain Ive realised
That youre disappointed? Or that Emilys not quite the perfect catch?
Graham winced.
It isnt that. Shes beautiful, young, yes, buthe hesitatedshe doesnt care about half the things I do. Weve nothing to talk about.
Did you think thirty-five-year-olds would fuss over late-night history documentaries? I chuckled. Graham, youre hopeless, honestly.
Thats not the point, he frowned. Becky, Ive behaved foolishly. Maybe
No, I shook my head with certainty. No maybe. Im grateful, actually.
For what? he blinked, flustered.
For leaving me. For forcing me to realise life isnt just cleaning and cooking.
Becky, Ive realised everything. I want to come home, he reached for my hand. We can fix this
I gently but clearly pulled back.
No, Graham. You dont want to come homebecause that home no longer exists. The old Becky, quietly washing socks and swallowing her words at dinner, shes gone. You havent met the new meand frankly, you might find her frightening.
Why?
Because she lives for herself.
Just then, Mum appeared, cane-free, supported by Edwards arm.
Oh, Graham, she gave him a chilly look. Still hanging round?
Good evening, Mrs Saunders, Graham stammered. I was just leaving.
Rightly so, Mum nodded. And next time you feel like running from old age, consideris the problem really other people?
Graham flinched, as if stung, then turned and left briskly.
Mum! I whispered reproachfully. That was
What? Mum shrugged. Nothing wrong with telling the truth. By the way, Edwards invited me to run a Tales of Childhood group for local grandchildren. Sounds fun!
Mrs Saunders is a natural storyteller, Edward smiled. The children will adore her.
I looked at Mumher face was brighter, eyes alive. Maybe thats wisdom, I thoughtnot to fight age but accept it as a gift, a chance to discover something new within yourself.
Two months later, Graham and Emily splitword was shed found someone younger. A month after that, he sent me a wobbly, apologetic message brimming with pleas for forgiveness. I never replied.
Why should I? Ive got my own life now. Twice a weekpoetry readings. And you know what? At fifty-three, for the first time in years, I feel truly young. Because youth isnt unlined skinits daring to be yourself, at any age.
