Slices of Life: Reminiscences from the Future

by Belmont Patch columnist Lisa Gibalerio

Yesterday was my birthday. The kids called and Elizabeth even sent a lovely bouquet of flowers. She spent too much money for something I’ll throw out in three days, but, as I always told the kids: gifts are gratuitous. Still, a fruit basket would have been both thoughtful and practical. Then again, my poor teeth are almost as old as I am … 74. Yikes.

Most of the time, I don’t feel 74. Actually, I feel every age I have ever been. There is still a young girl inside of me, the one who wanted all her clothes to be orange and who gasped with joy when she received an orange bathing suit on her fourth birthday. I was so excited: it was my first bikini and I wore it constantly that spring and throughout the summer.

The high school cheerleader is still a part of me too. As is the college student who lived at Fayerweather Hall with Pamela and Nicole as well as the twenty-something who moved to Boston to begin her professional life and graduate school.

Deep inside of me is also the bride who wore a fitted, cream colored, off-the-shoulder dress and couldn’t wait for married life and babies.  And, the mother of toddlers who dreamed of spending the long summers caring for them in a cottage by the sea. How I miss being the mother of young children! How I miss Kenneth, my parents and so many friends who have passed. Although blessed with many years, it is impossible to reach this age without having endured loss upon loss upon loss.

If I’m honest though, there are some things I don’t miss about being young. No one expects an old woman to wear high heels, to prepare an ambitious holiday meal, to apply mascara, or to drive at night. Sweet relief!

Still, the list of things I’ll never do again far outweighs the list of things I don’t care if I’ll ever do again. Chances are, I will never dive off a diving board, ice skate, ride a bike, sled down a snow-covered hill, play in rough ocean waves or chop down a Christmas tree, drag it home, and decorate it with my family.

Who was it that said “So sad, so strange, the days that are no more”?  Was it Browning? Blake? Tennyson? Oh God, I miss my memory; I miss it all!

Seventy-four years. Where on earth did they go?

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The piece you’ve just read is the first of four I wrote centered on a septuagenarian named Leah.  

Last fall, I enrolled in a series of writing workshops, entitled “Writing for Everyone," a program affiliated with the Amherst Writers and Artists. One of the writing assignments was to create a fictional character as well as an emotion that is intrinsically linked with that character. We would, over the course of several weeks of workshops, continue to develop our character and discover how the emotion we selected would be expressed.  

Having spent most of my life writing non-fiction (and occasionally some very bad poetry), I was both intrigued and daunted by the prospect of writing fiction.

If you’d like to read more about Leah in this space in the coming weeks, let me know.