Today, he seemed only slightly older than himself. In his heart, he doesn’t judge the pace of time, only its effect on others. He knows age does not come in strictly metered increments, it comes in waves.
On some Thursdays he is younger than on the Mondays of those weeks. He is faster, stronger, wilder, more romantic. But there are days when age comes crashing upon his rocks where it rises like a tide, eroding perceptions and desires fogging like the morning seas. Yet, he recovers, as a separate natural tide within him flows.
We measure age, for easiness of speech, by clocks or calendars, but he knows that is not the way. In fact, it comes with something very much like patience—it wins and washes him away. The number doesn’t matter now, although 70 is our favorite number. The years are coming fast. What matters more is their quality, and which shall be that last. I wish you well, in any case. If I could improve your coming days, I’d happily take the worst.
In the present, we have life which men see as a gift, though no two see it quite the same. Some minutes you know happiness, certain days are strung, like beads.
So here’s to hope, which never turns its eyes to what is past but runs into future years. It unearths joy every every day, where he gains new understanding, to see beauty, feel love, or know the richness of watching his youngest granddaughter express her every like and dislike with force and sweetness, who is consumed in making soft, confiding noises that bend the heart of the hearer to her. Then, she looks at the world unblinking, unhurried with the dignity that should have been the rite of Queens. And he knows he had been in the presence of unblemished happiness, perfect naturalness. He feels chastened and uplifted.
Happy Birthday, Castle.
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