(Illustration by Meg van Schaik.)
Last night on the watch, with quiet streets and a frozen night sky iced with glinting crystals, time seemed to slow its step to a dawdling loiter.
What is time but something that keeps everything from happening all at once? Unfortunately, as Lucille S. Harper said “Time is a great healer, but a poor beautician.” This got me thinking; how many times have I heard it said, “Age is just a number”? I forget. Well, if you’re 23, yes, it’s a number. If you’re 63, that’s age. There’s nothing “just” about it. I find, however, that there is some truth in it, inside my head. I still feel 23. But the outside of my head really does a number on that whole delusion. Even (no, especially) my own kids have dropped the present participle from the rare but hurtful observation “Dad, you’re getting old.” Now it’s “Dad, you’re old!” Where did the getting go?
Time was, I was a good-looking youngster full of dance and dare. “You’ll see,” I tell them. “When you get to my age, you’ll still feel your age.” Well, you know what I mean.
“Also,” I tell them, “I’ll have you know I am still considered attractive to the females. On my late NHW shifts they approach me in my car in the street and it’s hard to keep them off me.” “Daaaad!” “I’ll admit they’re not in it for a long-term relationship,” I concede. “It’s more like just a hook-up kinda thing. Most of them only last for two months, max.” “But Dad, it’s Covid lockdown. What are these females doing out on the streets? In your car???”
As I reflected on a suitable response, the soft angel-breath and gentle whisperings of an uninvited female drifted through my open window and kissed my ear. “I don’t know, I’ll Google it.”
I’m embarrassed to admit, I never knew until later that night: it’s only the females of the mosquito species that sting. How lucky we are. They only live to sling Cupid's little arrows for two months. But Imagine if the males got in the game too? That would really suck.
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