Old

Being old may be more like staring at a wall than the 'palm at the end of the mind' Stevens wrote about.

My aunt Lois needs purpose? Here it is: to die an elegant, beautiful death, beaming with  enjoyment of life, your recognition of her accomplishments, letting others give to her  as you've given to them.

But I'm saying this for her and not to her. It's so sad to me that I can't say this, as the word death is not to be used around her.

I wonder how much of what can't be said keeps her alive?

She said to me the other day,  "I don't even know who I am." I said, "you're Lois, that's who you are." That's as close as we've come to telling the truth to one another, as close as we may ever come.

I know how important it is to Lois that things make sense, especially things she can't make sense of, but she just can't seem to accept the idea that even the metaphysical world is composed of questions without answers. I'd like to see her smile more and laugh and let go and enjoy her life as fully as possible to the very end, but it's not my life she's living, it's hers.