For the last evening of July

After my evening nap, we traditionally set out for an evening walk.
The benefits are undeniable.
My – a dose of fresh air.
E – an outburst of youthful maximalism.
Man – a way to justify to myself that here, instead of a gym (which I currently can’t find the time to attend, not even with a flashlight), I’m getting my exercise.

On one of the forest paths, we encounter
an elderly gentleman.
He’s pushing a bike, fully loaded with mushrooms and berries.
As we pass by, the old man smiles kindly:
“The whole family is heading into the forest, and here I am, the rascal, carting all the mushrooms and berries away,” he says in a pleasant voice.

I smile:
“Not the whole family. We still have a sister and a brother—so they’ll be searching for mushrooms and berries for a long time,” I laugh.

We pass each other.
But as we walk away, I hear a crack from the old man’s bike. He stops and watches us with his eyes.
And then.
I feel such a full sigh of admiration:

“Oh my! So young, and God has already blessed you with three children… :)))))”

I don’t turn around.
I don’t want to ruin the moment.
I just keep walking, smiling.

Did I stumble upon some magical berry while wandering the forest?
Did I kick an enchanted mushroom?
Did I sniff a meadow flower smeared with the elixir of youth?

The first thing I do when I get home is glance at the hallway mirror.
No. The berries I ate in the forest weren’t magical.
The mushroom I brushed past wasn’t enchanted.
The meadow flower wasn’t smeared with the elixir of youth.
The miracle clearly hasn’t happened.

I left at 37.
I returned exactly the same age—the mirror shows it.

And yet, not long ago,
just one day in the past week,
I started my car at work.
Waiting for the sun-heated cabin to cool a bit,
I’m visited by a guest.
Or rather, a “foreigner.”
Since an older lady had stepped onto our entry steps, I almost certainly assumed she would open the passenger door to ask something.
I was wrong.
“Get out of here!” she shouted angrily.
Perhaps my shocked expression was so unexpected that she added:
“You’re polluting the air, and I can’t stand that noise!”

After a bit of talking—well, more like “shouting”—she slams the passenger door.
And returns to her perch on the step.
I drive out of the work lot, unable to find a single word.
Maybe that’s for the best?

This evening’s tea toast—
To NON-ANGRY OLD AGE.

One that
leads along winding forest paths,
bounces along on bikes loaded with old berries and mushrooms,
and sprinkles good mood everywhere.
For free.

If mine will be like that,
I’m not afraid of aging.
I’ll go berry- and mushroom-picking.
And pushing through the forest with full baskets,
I’ll talk to passersby and spread good feelings.
Left and right.
Up and down.

Mua,
V.