The Lightness of Age Nicholás Forero What is it with that old woman? She is my grandmother, a being now considered obsolete, except by the few who can still leech come capital from her important relatives. Born ages ago, she saw the rise and fall of fools and kings, but never knew about it; she only knew that her husband wasn’t home, and that her sons and daughter wanted food. She followed the lives of the British royalty, not knowing that her nation didn’t care about figure heads across the ocean. Her nation was too busy caring about Violencia and repressive unity. It is a repulsive and yet adorable sight to see the small, old lady serving breakfast for an entire household, a custom of decades, not knowing that women had been set free by law. I let her serve me as well, but I will always question her purpose. To have lived more than eighty years, there must’ve been some purpose to her life. And I know she would have kept going. But the fragility of the body is the limit to the strength of our hearts. She never saw any of her teeth decay or fall; she never felt her sight falter as she watched novellas all day. She kept on living, purposefully I hope, not knowing her body would give up soon. There were so many things that old woman did not know. Maybe she didn’t know that death had set her free when it came.
What puzzles that young spirit? I see my grandson, healthy, not a shade under his eyes, nor a varicose vein in his hand. All he can ever worry about is drawing funds from us, from his loving ancestors, to indulge in his dreams of the future. He wastes hours thinking of Greek philosophers that died centuries ago, of dictators and presidents that he will only know as names. He thinks he’s being wise by observing how the world develops around him, but he is only distracting himself from the beauty of simple life. He worries too much about the violence he has never had to face – how glad I am that my family fared well for him to never suffer that!
It is sad that I will have to leave soon, before I get to see him realize the fallacies of his endeavors. I will look down upon him from other worlds; watch him ascend into a complicated, heavy life. I will see how he’ll begin to respect my lightness after I leave, and loathe the heaviness to which he ties himself now. He will find too much purpose, and too little joy.
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