A Life Truly Lived

The mid-afternoon sun filtered through the window, casting its gentle glow across the room. Suspended in its mild light, dust motes drifted aimlessly, the swirl of their flight directed by air currents unseen.

He wondered if all human lives were not basically the same; slowly twirling flakes of existence, dancing around one another, their course altered and affected by forces unknown. You hover a while, basking in the light, your life’s direction affected by things as simple as whether or not you were on time to catch the bus, before you slowly fall, your height dropping lower and lower, until you touch down on the ground and finally lie still.

He’d heard once that eventually, given enough time, all people became dust. The body breaks down, we become our constituent elements, we turn to dust…

He wasn’t sure how true it was, but he liked the idea of spinning a while in the breeze, floating through the sky, travelling the air currents, traversing the planet. Perhaps he’d become a snowflake, and fall to the earth once more, just one of many, drifting in a blizzard.

What appealed to him most of all however, was the idea of lightness; to have a body so light, he could ride the air itself. He was tired of being heavy, and grounded. This was perhaps the worst thing about being old; the feeling of weight. Once, he had been young, and strong, lifting his wife across the threshold on their wedding night, carrying her in his arms, dancing with her, whisking her off her feet…

Now he could barely lift himself. Pulling his aging body from the chair, raising himself to his feet, he swore he could feel his bones creaking, his muscles groaning with the effort. The simple task of walking to the bathroom, it was almost enough to cause him to break into a sweat.

Still, he was grateful; he had his mind.

When he was a boy, he remembered his grandfather fading away before their eyes. Alzheimer’s had stolen him from them piece by piece. A strong man, a healthy man, had become nothing, his body willing but his mind lost. He’d forgotten them, one by one, until they were all strangers to him, and then he was gone.

Having witnessed this, he’d lived his life knowing that at any moment it could begin to fade away. Alzheimer’s was not necessarily hereditary, but just the fact that his grandfather had it meant that he was more likely to. He could think of no sadder end to a life, than to simply forget it all.

He did not want to forget.

He did not want to lose his memories.

He did not want to lose himself.

He was grateful that he had been spared this cruel fate.

He remembered, over seventy years ago, standing on the deck of a British supply ship, his parents huddled below, the crew hidden within the bridge, as Italian planes skimmed overhead. He could still feel the hands of the children on either side of him, a barrier almost thirty strong, erected as a last resort to safeguard the ship, its worth hinging purely on the hope and prayer that they’d be seen before the pilots opened fire, staking their lives on the belief that morality and conscience would trump orders given in wartime. He could still feel his clothes ripple with the wind of the planes’ passing, hear the throbbing buzz of their engines roaring overhead.

He remembered the war ending, and seeing his father weep for the first and only time, his relief and joy leaking out of him as his shoulders shook at their kitchen table. His mother pulling him into her arms and refusing to let him go.

He remembered his university days, the world changed and forever marked with the passing of what had come before. His walks to lectures were through streets abundant with laughter and giggling, the post-war baby boom filling the country once more with life and love. People were young again, and whilst the ravages of the past would never be forgotten, they could begin to finally move on.

He remembered the first sight of his wife, her image etched into his mind as she walked into the library, her hair catching the light, a smile playful on her lips. He could feel the rustle of the paper beneath his fingers as he read the book she’d just returned, imagining he could still detect her lingering touch upon its pages. His heart had hammered in his chest, his mouth parched and constricting, as he first asked her out, and then later for her hand.

He remembered travelling to work, his bus rolling and bumping, and reading over another man’s shoulder how dreams could unite a people, and equality was a right for all. He watched as that hope unfolded, slowly but surely, and humanity began to stand together, rather than push itself apart. He smiled as foundations were laid, and though the road would be long and winding, he knew the destination would be a thing of beauty.

He remembered learning one morning that his wife could not bear him a child, and still holding her that afternoon as they watched a man set foot on the moon. He could feel the odd sense of disconnection, as they marvelled at how life could be so sad, yet so wondrous at the same time. They would never be blessed with children, but he vowed that day, as her tears dampened his neck, to never let her feel blame or responsibility; he would cherish her, as he always had, and show her that her presence alone was enough to make his life complete. He would fill her life with as much wonder and joy as he was able, in a time when man had lifted from the earth and reached for the stars.

He remembered keeping his promise until she was taken from him, her whispered love the last thing to pass her lips as she slipped away, his tears staining her pillow. He would read the letters she left to him, found tucked within her nightstand, as she thanked him for the time he’d given her, the happiness they’d had, and the things they’d experienced together. He would weep again, and place them in his jacket pocket, where they would remain until this day; never far from reach, always lightly pressing against his chest.

He remembered searching for meaning after her passing, throwing himself at the world. He could still feel the soft fur of the kangaroo in Australia; smell the thick, pungent aroma of the camel in Egypt; taste the lingering metallic edge of the paint at the holy festival in India; feel the bob of the barge on the river in Vietnam. His passport filled, as he attempted to fill the hole of loneliness and longing planted by her absence.

He remembered the first twinge of his back, the first spasm that began to nag and tug at his spine. He felt the dull ache, that grew and grew, until he was forced to return home, his travels at an end. He sighed as walking became a chore, as he was forced to spend more and more time slumped in his chair, his muscles atrophying before his eyes.

He remembered the first time he noticed the dust, and pondered on the meaning of his existence, on what may or may not await him when he met his end.

He remembered it all, and he was grateful.

To age and lose one’s strength was a far smaller price to pay, than to grow old and lose one’s mind. His life was long, and he was tired, looking forward to the day that he too could turn to dust, yet still he was grateful.

He knew he had truly lived.