The slow passage

I hate the endings. It’s not that I wish everything always stayed the same. I just wish we didn’t have to lose so much, and I find this extends to the most mundane things. Today I was thinking it’s been ages since I saw an elderly person who looked like the elderly of my youth. Back then, there were clear lines of demarcation that appealed to me. I could see the living history on them, all coiffed and coordinated. Reminds me of Countess Rossakoff from Poirot - the young people - they don’t want to please anymore. Every generation has extended the faction that doesn’t want to please. Don’t get me wrong - I love my jeans and boots and the freedom to borrow my husband’s shirts. I don’t think a person’s appearance is the most important thing about them. I just liked having another time represented so clearly. When something like that is ingrained into society, it becomes an art with the people of that time. I miss seeing their art. I miss all those things that dwindle and fade down to two dimensional images or words on a page. It’s not the same as seeing them in motion when you can feel all the nuances, the complicated humanity, behind them. They take their lessons with them and leave us to fend for ourselves.