It's early spring here in this lovely country town. I'm striding along, cane swinging artlessly from one hand, balancing me as I weave gently from side to side. It's warm enough to go coatless - an unspeakable gift - but not one to be trusted, not yet, not til the plants kick in...and Easter is past...and the nights get above freezing...
As I walk along the road, past the Greek-Canadian-Pizza restaurant, past the storage facility located unattractively beside the churchyard, past the huge Catholic church that looks benignly down on the town, too old to have much vigor, I marvel at the concept that I've lived for over 50 years. It just doesn't seem right. Inside my head, I'm still less than 30, still wakening to the sun on my face, on my arms.
The cane doesn't matter. It's the inside girl who does, the one who is mentally running, skipping, filled with the joy of spring.
Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter. Mark Twain (1835-1910)
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