My bones are old. But my soul is older. No matter how old I get, it doesn’t change the exciting feeling I get when I wake up. Long ago, I discovered the joy of teaching youngsters. Something about watching them gain new knowledge takes away just a little bit of the pain of all my losses.
For close to a thousand years, I have watched loved ones live and grow old and die. It gets a little bit easier with time, but sometimes I think of them. Pangs of the pain of loss stabs me in the soul every so often. No matter how old I get or how many losses I rack up: the joy of teaching still gets me out of bed.
I stretch my stiff limbs. The morning sun streams through the window, warming my bed. Once everything has cracked and popped and settled back into its place, I sit upright. I spend some time soaking in the sun.
Then my alarm starts to ring.
I stop the infernal racket and begin my morning routine. I start every day as I have for the last few years; hot tea.
It seems like just yesterday the young dutchman peddling exotic goods gave me my first taste. It was expensive and hard to come by at the time, but delicious. Sharp and reviving. Not unlike the teas today, though I have to admit I like the much milder taste of today’s broader selection.
When you’ve tasted so much food from so many different places, mild can be a nice change.
I run the tap, filling the kettle, and put it on the burner. Not so long ago, I was stoking fires to create this same drink. Modern technologies like the electric stove have made that so much easier.
And faster too.
The kettle whistles. I turn the stove off, giving the water time to settle as I get a mug and place the tea bag inside. I pour the hot water over the bags and set my timer.
Now it is time to get dressed.
I return to my bedroom and close the curtain so my neighbors don’t get a free peepshow.
The bra is one of my least favorite recent inventions. Followed closely by the corset and girdle. They are confining and restrictive. One of the few things I am nostalgic for is a time when it was acceptable to be comfortable in clothing.
The rise of ever more restrictive shapewear will be the downfall of humanity, mark my words.
Feelings aside, I put a bra on anyway. Then I put on my favorite work dress and a sweater because it's a bit chilly this time of year. When the timer dings from the kitchen I take a much anticipated and much too hot drink of my tea.
I race to the fridge with a built-in icemaker and get a few cubes. I pop one in my mouth and the rest in my mug. Iced tea is a magical drink. It is one of the few things I love about America and living this long.
I remember having my first glass of it. That’s an even more vivid memory than my first taste of tea. It was refreshing in a way that I thought was impossible after living in what would come to be the Southern United States. Sometimes when I think about it, I have to convince myself that it wasn’t earlier this week that I discovered the revivifying beverage that is iced tea.
I know in my heart that it was a few hundred years ago, but when you get to be my age, everything is a few hundred years ago.
Though, the older I get, the closer together everything feels.
I go into the bathroom to do my hair and make up. These products have come very far since a time when I was crushing things to create the looks I wanted. Rubbing things all over my face that I should not have been. Just the thought of the women I’ve lost to these products sends a chill down my spine.
Once I am satisfied with my look, I return to the kitchen. I get an insulated mug from one of my cupboards and put more ice in it. Then I pour the tea over the fresh ice. I take a small sip to keep it from spilling before I put the lid on.
I grab a snack bar from the pantry and head to the front door. I’m a little bit saddened when I see my husband’s favorite baseball cap hanging by the door. I miss waking up next to him. It's been years, but I still keep his things around. Love like ours is once in a lifetime, even one that’s as long as mine.
The good news is that every hundred years or so, he is reincarnated. This most recent version remembered some of his previous lifetimes. Other versions have remembered nothing.
I sit in the sadness for a moment before I grab my keys, my bag of class materials, and purse and head to work. I pull in, park, walk across the parking lot, and scan in to the building. Once inside, I head to my classroom. I’ve taught classes here for a long time so the walk is muscle memory at this point.
I turn on the light. Then I go to my desk and put my purse in one of the drawers. The bag of materials goes on my shoulder and I begin doling them out to each chair. When that is done, I look at the clock. There are three minutes until my students arrive.
I sit in my chair and take a deep breath. The excitement wells up in me.
I love teaching the youngsters.
The door opens. It’s the first of my students. They take their time to be seated.
“Is this everyone?” I ask, looking around.
“Looks like it,” one of the students says after looking around.
“Excellent,” I say. “I’m so excited to be here again. Some of you are new faces, so welcome. Some of you are not, so welcome back!”
“That’s my wife,” a man calls from the back.
“Shut up, Herman. She’s too young to be your wife,” a woman with blue hair says. “It's just the dementia. You know. He's your grandpa after all.”
“I know,” I say, even though she’s wrong.
Herman is my husband. I spent years caring for him, then he became dangerous. Taking my car, getting lost, biting a retail worker who handed him back his card. It was hard to watch the man I love fade away, but this was the best decision I ever made. I get to see him every day and I don’t have to worry about his safety and everyone else’s all the time.
I love teaching craft classes at my husband’s nursing home. I love keeping their aging, comparatively young, minds active.
“Let’s begin!”
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