I suppose if I had known my grandparents when they were in their 30s, 40s, and 50s, I would have seen striking similarities between them and my parents at every age. Just as, if I could superimpose myself now next to my mother when she was 36, I am sure I would move, speak, gesture, blink, just like her. Take her shape. I certainly hear her words coming out of my mouth, all the time. Her tone. Her tendencies. I am her, in many ways.
But of course, I didn’t know my grandparents until they were in their 60s and 70s, when my parents were in their 30s and 40s, and they did not seem so very alike. These days, though, when I see my parents (they just came for a long weekend), I am seeing my grandparents, in every way. Their expressions, the way they move, their shapes when they sit. It’s haunting, and also comforting, somehow. The continuity through generations. I think about how it must seem like yesterday that my sister and I were the same size as my girls, and how strange that one day my girls will be grown like me, and (hopefully) feel a growing urge to protect me and Sash, though from what I can’t exactly say, the way we long to protect them now.
Don’t get me wrong (Mum and Dad - I know your hackles are up if you’re reading this) - my parents are fantastic. They are healthy, fit, sharp. They travel, they read, they try new things. They are not your average retirees. And yet, they are getting older. We all are. It creeps up on us, and seems less obvious when you’re in the middle, but there it is. We are all getting older, every damn day.
I’m not dwelling on it. Just sitting with it for a moment. Then I’ll get up and keep flapping.