There are things slipping away from me.
Little birds that don’t sit on my chair-rails; and a dog that never comes to me when I forget to call her. Maybe I should put the phone back on the wall… I think enough time has passed.
When the bell rings, I go down to see if there is anyone there, but there never is. I wonder if I should close the shop up early tonight?
All the trinkets are gone from the shelves, or they are drowning in their own private blanket of dust. Perhaps I will put up the ‘closed’ sign; and take a walk.
The night is just a piece of sad velvet after all.
The damps of autumn sink into the leaves and prepare them for the necessity of their fall; and thus insensibly are we, as years close around us, detached from our tenacity of life by the gentle pressure of recorded sorrow. W.S. Landor (1775 – 1864)
I read that quote, once, twice; ten times. I wonder what unspoken grief pressed his hand to the parchment to pen those lines? How often he must have felt the ‘damps of autumn’ seeping into his soul, and felt a heaviness of step, and weary bones?
Face-to-face with his own mortality; the author bleeds ink to his page. Now nearly 150 years after his death, I read those lines, and think I know what was going on in his soul: Are we ‘detached from our tenacity of life’ merely by age, or as Landor wrote: ‘by the gentle pressure of recorded sorrow’ ?
I sense a deep rift between life, and the prospect of death, as though he is weighing the cost, and the benefits of continuing despite the toil and pain. When we are young, we have that sharp ‘tenacity’ to hold on. The very concept of youth is wrapped up in a veracity to live, and a feeling of immortality.
The older we are; the less death seems a specter to be fought, and more it seems an old friend to be embraced.