Mortality Walk
Age, not the physical grinding of bone; not the deep fatigue of flesh wanting to shed away from a soul; rather, age, the loss of that youthful gleam that once made days feel mysterious and new, creeps in, I think, when you stop caring enough about the details around you to act on them, when questioning becomes an end in itself and not a means toward exploration, when life (the minutiae of it) can’t move you anymore. I walked back barefooted from the compost bin head down, watching the sandy, scrub ground pass me by, and I saw an upturned mushroom, white stem, white cap, laying on its side knocked down or half eaten, or something. It was an opportunity for questions and speculation and field guides and a tiny measure of adventure, but I walked by, maybe satisfied in having noticed it all, and I knew in that instant I was old. I took my annual mortality walk at Morgan Creek. High water forced me to roll up my pants, hike them above my knees, and wade my sun-starved, hairy thighs