At 50 with love

It’s a dreary morning in the boatyard. The wind is the only one on duty today.

Grey. Swirling. Boats under flapping tarps. Dreams on hold. 

I’ve left it too long. My hair hangs around, sadly, leaning on my shoulders for support. It’s futile. I can’t write. I should write. Writing is my wind. It whistles through my ears. It is the voices I hear. It is my own voice.

My hands are pale. The pores, the brown spots. The veins are on duty. They are prominent. They exert authority above my docile keyboard. These are fifty year old hands.

Weeks ago the day came. The ‘officially old’ day. But before that I was reminded. My eyes. Blur. The tiny font on labels taunting me. My one dollar glasses, stuffed in every pocket and purse. Lenses smudged, scratched. In the mirror, the dark circles of age framing the failing eyes.

My hair, in clumps sliding down my body into the drain. Thinning. Duller. Older

But I was alive. Moving. Traveling. Fishing for my passport in the backpack with that sinking feeling each time, it might not be there! Then reassured. Removing my shoes for security machines. Setting my liquids aside in a ziplock. Worried. Excited. Alive.

And before that I was stood in blue, in a park near the boatyard, between friends. I was reminded. I am lucky. It was a ‘colour of the sea’ themed barbecue. It was a gathering of a certain type of people. A family of my choosing. Age, culture and country melting away over pop songs sung off key in unison. The food! Cake. The speech! The two hour drive for some. None of it taken for granted. All of it swirling in my mind, my heart. This family of my choosing. It’s fluid. People come and go. We come and go. 

I’ve slept in 26 beds between September and today. 26 pillows. 95 days. 11 flights. 6 countries. I’m moving. 

SO MANY PRICELESS REUNIONS.

Sitting on a plane to Zurich with South African elephant dung in the grooves of the soles of my shoes. Clung to my soul.

The joy in Emma’s eyes as she cuddled Rainbow the rhino. In the Gredos mountains of Spain, a little blond, blue eyed girl with a South African father who is American too, spends her days running and jumping through forests of wild mushrooms and chestnut trees. She is our grand daughter, and her tiny warm hand in mine, led us through her little life, while she held her rhino. Brought from Cape Town, with love. 

We’ve indulged, sampled the world - pizza, fresh fish off Cape Town’s shores, slap chips, meat pies, Spanish Iberica ham, blood pudding, roasted chestnuts. I’ve slurped aromatic sauces through my fingers over a bed of injeera in an Ethiopian restaurant in downtown Vancouver with my son and his girl and a dear old friend. 

Special moments. Burned into me. Carrying me beyond 50.

Carrying me back to this boat. Climbing the makeshift stairs. Working and waiting for the day she is gently returned by hoist into the sea where she belongs.

We will keep moving. South, away from cold. South to where the sun shines most days. Banishing grey. Places where the sun is always on duty. Where we have chosen to be. We will meet the friends who are family in different places. There will be more barbecues. There will be sand. Sunsets.

I will sweep my thinner hair up into a clip to let the breeze onto my sweating neck. I will splash my weathering face with cool water to start the days.

I will hold all these memories of our travels. Of the faces. Smiles. Loving the life I have.

I will write. It’s a promise I need to make to my fragile heart. I will put it all into words. The magic of sorrow and the flashes of beauty.

Here’s to life beyond 50.