Seventy had been sitting by the side of the road for a long time, just waiting patiently for me to come along. I first caught sight of him several years ago in a lucent dream. He would reappear in my dreams from time to time, always in the distance but always a little closer, smiling and waving me forward, as if my journey toward him was discretionary.
One July morning, I woke with a start. There he was, sitting by my bed, no longer a distant apparition. I was wary of what he had in store for me as he sat there, a gold incisor flashing in his mouth and an overpopulation of liver spots on his forehead. I did not want to be him, and I made what I thought was an athletic leap from under the covers, landing with two feet on the floor as if to show Seventy that I was still a limber young man. But Seventy only chortled and poked me in the calf with his cane. Then he gave me a sympathetic smile as I sat back on my bed, now swaying in resignation as the cramp in my leg was replaced by dull pains across my lower back. My nakedness—because that’s how I sleep—made me feel vulnerable and bare, rather than free and vigorous.
It turned out, though, that Seventy wasn't such a bad fellow. He was the only one in the house who still found my dated jokes witty. Only Seventy thought that my furrowed smile and the muscles that I had never taken the time to properly tone, made me winsome. Only Seventy quietly waited when I took too long to reply to a question, and didn't complain when I asked for something that I couldn't quite hear to be repeated. Only Seventy was okay sharing a lane at the pool, swimming next to me without reproach despite my ambling, waggling pace. He didn't mind if I stopped to rest more than once on mountain hikes. Seventy didn't feel it necessary to comment on my more than occasional need to use the bushes alongside the fairways, or the extra strokes I needed to reach the greens. And only Seventy solicitously applauded when I sang, "The Short Term Memory Loss Blues," even smiling affectionately when my voice struggled to reach the high notes.
Seventy helped me remember many good times past. But he also let me know that there was still much more road to travel, and that there were things and people ahead that would leave me gleeful: new places to visit, friends to meet, ideas to explore, love to make. And he reminded me that I could still enjoy a good steak—grilled rare, a glass of fine Burgundy, and the company of Romance, who had been traveling with me all these years.
My time with Seventy was short; I had to keep moving on. Many more things to see and do as I cast my gaze ahead. As I did, there, on the distant horizon, Eighty came into view, smiling and waving me forward. I glanced back at Seventy for a moment and he gave me a nod. He looked much younger now, and full of health. He was no longer a fearsome ghost of what might be, but a memory of what actually was. He had lost his stoop and his cane, and suddenly leaped into the air and gave a celebratory fist pump. I responded with a grinning smile. Then I caught sight of Sixty, now far and away back on the beaten path, his back to me, waving for younger folks to join him. And I thought, it might be nice to be back with Sixty again, but I am just as happy to navigate through some new adventures and have the chance to meet up with Eighty. With that in mind, I strode on, giving a wide-handed, backward wave to earlier years.
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