There was this poem I read when I was still in secondary school. It was titled, “The Panic of Growing Older.”
There’s a panic I feel but it’s not of me, it’s of my parents. Along came an Instagram post that read, “We don’t talk enough about the anticipatory grief of watching your parents age.” But I do, and sometimes I feel guilty.
When the panic starts, you try to silence it and you comfort yourself with the notion that it is part of human existence. But these people are not just humans, they are Mother and Father. The pair who sacrificed most of their lives to make you where you are. In the gratitude, comes the fear of not getting to be with them like you would want to because their knees are now weak.
Not Just a Bad Day – A Creative Non-Fiction by Cynthia Ajiboye – Nigeria
Birthdays pass and you notice something new in their physique, there’s a patch in the middle of your father’s head which gets wider each year and a wrinkle just above your mum’s chin which never seems to fade no matter how she glows every morning.
Let’s not get started on the silver strands that form a garden on their pretty heads. They are growing old and with age comes weakness, and falling asleep too early just before the favourite part in the movie comes up. You smile because it is expected, but you can’t help but miss them young. Young enough for them to tap you when you fall asleep before your favourite part comes up.
Now the roles are reversed, you remind them to take their meds, their phones are filled with alarms to remind them and they still end up forgetting, and they can’t seem to get enough sleep.
The hugs that were too tight are now not tight enough. They are slower in hearing and in speech just like younger you, but you know what doesn’t grow old? Their smile and love, which remain just the same way as you will always remember it. Sometimes you stare at them long enough to see what you remember them by. Your giant mum now sits underneath your armpit in the family portrait and your father’s once piercing gaze is covered by the lenses.
In Remembrance – A Creative Non-Fiction by Owami Hugo Jackson – South Africa
As a child, you see your parents as these invincible adults. We see our dads as these big strong men who work hard, protect us, and just take care of things; you know, “I’ll just tell my dad”, kind of stuff, and we see our moms as our caretakers who are always there to make sure our needs are attended to, that we always know we are loved. I mean it’s always, “Mum, when next you go there, I’d like this” and you know you’ll get it.
There was a time when they didn’t seem to age at all, and all of a sudden, your mum can’t see without her glasses and your dad doesn’t just look the same anymore. All through my growing up they looked the same age to me. Strong, energetic and young. That is how they have always seemed to me.
Always, that is, until now. Now I see a cute white-haired mom who seems to be chattier and I see a grey-haired father who walks a little slower than he once did.
Both are now in their new age; the realization is finally hitting me that one day (and I pray that it is many more years down the road still) these two people who have been there all my life may no longer be with me. It’s that thought that scares me.
Read – Two Wheels, Soul Mover – A Creative Non-Fiction by Brianna Matheka – Kenya
I stare a little longer now, long enough to see that my mum counts her steps when she walks, she has more things to say now but it is slower. Her hands are warmer and her eyes are kinder.
I stay a little longer now to stare at them with their friends, their laughs are exactly how they used to sound, but the table looks different than what I was used to. They all look the same, the same stories left their lips. On some days it’s about how they could’ve conquered the world and on other days, it’s their fear for the future.
I hold a little longer now when I’m speaking to my mum. I hold her palm a little longer and play with the lines that have formed at the back of her palms. I play with Dad’s finger a little longer—it has been a silly habit of mine since I was little.
I worry a little longer now because I know it’s not what it used to be.
I laugh a little longer not because I want to, but because I get the jokes now. Either that or they are funnier than they used to be.
I hug a little longer too, it’s comforting and just feels good. In reality, it eases the panic and that is all I want.
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Tarinabo Diete resides in Port Harcourt, Nigeria and stands between the crossroads of storytelling and education. When her nose is not stuck in a book, she watches cooking shows and cartoons. She also tells stories about the places she’s been, the people she’s met and shows how she sees the world through her ink. Her work has been featured in HER mag ng, Poetry Journal, Pencil Marks, The Lagos Review, Oriire, Applied World Wide, amongst many others.
