Where Have All the Young Folks Gone?

We went to another funeral yesterday. My cousin Rosie's husband, Harry, died. He was seventy five. That's not real young, but it's not terribly old either. He had Parkinson's disease. He was diagnosed with it when he was forty nine, but you wouldn't have known it until later years. He was a quiet, gentle man. After the Mass, there was a luncheon at a nice restaurant. What was disturbing to me was the gray hair on my cousins' children. Some also had receding hairlines and children of their own, the eldest of whom were now preparing for college. I remember as a child romping around with my cousins, all of whom, except one, are older than me. My aunts and uncles were the older generation. We were the kids. I remember my cousins graduating from high school. I remember them getting married. Life moved on and we're clearly not the kids anymore. We have become the older generation, the old folks. When did this all happen? I don't remember it.

Sometimes I forget how old I am. When I was at the doctor's office a few weeks ago, I had to do some quick math to answer a standard inquiry as to "how old are you?" It turns out that I am a year older than I thought, so I don't think about it anymore. Age is nothing really but a number. Because you are a certain age doesn't mean that you can't do this or that. I still think I can do the things I did when I was twenty. Some I can do, a lot I can't. My body quickly lets me know which ones I can't. When I think about a number associated with my age, I think, "No, that can't be right. That number doesn't apply to me." Well, it does apply to me. Four of my nine cousins have now died and two husbands of the remaining ones are gone. They all had higher numbers than me, though. But where have all the young folks gone? They're still with us, but they are different people. They are the kids we used to be and we're not the kids anymore.