Sixty years old

The poor plant… I was proud to have saved it. With sim­ple care, its thin branch­es had flour­ished again. And then, with­out me aban­don­ing her, she quick­ly lost her leaves, as if she was out of breath with so much effort, so much so that one day I abrupt­ly cut her, almost out of pity.

I thought she was dying. Its leaves tar­nished, dried faster than my own skin. I must say that I haven’t replaced his land in a long time. My neigh­bour had warned me though. I promised myself every week­end that I would do it or, at the very least, I would go get some fertilizer.

Any­way, I aban­doned her ? A lit­tle, yes. She told me two months ago, all leaves curled up in the pain of dry­ing out. So, like an insen­si­tive per­son who real­izes his clum­si­ness, I start­ed water­ing him again, promis­ing him that he would feel bet­ter when I soon changed his land and maybe even a new pot.

Drunk­en promise.

But now, despite every­thing, she starts giv­ing flow­ers again, smelling either her death or spring. Basi­cal­ly, these two sea­sons are prob­a­bly the same thing. I start­ed throw­ing the cof­fee grounds around her. It may be that, or sim­ply that this act of gen­eros­i­ty is enough to restore his con­fi­dence. I’ll have to replace his floor too…

I am six­ty years old today, my sto­ry, yours, theirs, is about the same thing, the same vibra­tions of exis­tence which, depend­ing on the earth where the roots, the nos­trils, get their food, give fruits, ideas, vio­lence or stars.

How much time do I have left to live ? Do I need to know that ? My par­ents called me this morn­ing and cov­ered me with their words of love, my father still call­ing me “his lit­tle boy”.

We exclaimed about the snow that keeps cov­er­ing their house, the neigh­bour who came to clear the roof, the oth­er who pulled up the garbage bins because the ground was slip­pery. They are hap­py to be sur­round­ed by car­ing neighbours.

Of course we talked about old age, Mom­my say­ing not to believe that six­ty years have already passed since she gave birth to me. We left each oth­er by kiss­ing through these tele­phone waves that no longer require wiring.

Real­ly, every­thing is waves, flow­ers and renew­al. Every sec­ond we live is a day that we can renew, rein­vent over and over again. At my age, as they say, we resign our­selves to this qui­et, haunt­ing, melan­cholic wis­dom of autumn.

The old­er I get, the more I feel like a monk, a bird, unnec­es­sar­i­ly free and con­scious of the joy of liv­ing. I don’t write this to make it sweet. I do not want to obey myself with hon­eyed max­ims, but I will say this all the same, before I make my dai­ly amen : We must car­ry high, and in silence, the pow­er­ful torch of our con­scious­ness and do what it takes to par­tic­i­pate ful­ly and com­plete­ly in the great work of the Universe.

I sub­mit to it. I have no choice, and that’s fine.


Tags:old age


  • Alain Beaudry

    Alain Beaudry 2019/03/02 21:05 0

    Tellement bien dit Guy, tu vas voir la soixantaine peut être apaisante,vivifiante,aimante...Je te la souhaite pétante !!!!