I wonder often how much differently my life would be had my grandparents not passed away before I was born. I wonder what stories they would have shared about their childhoods in the villages in Akwa Ibom or Ogun State. I wonder what obscenities they would have shouted after my parents when they were in trouble, and how it would have opposed the way they spoke of their children with pride in their accomplishments. I wonder at what age my grandmother would have taught me to sew on the machine that she used herself as a seamstress in the shop. Or if my grandfather’s stubbornness rivaled that of my father, who refuses any way but his own. I sit here wondering about so much history that I unfortunately will never get to learn and experience first hand. My grandparents exist now only through the generational memory of their children. I mourn the loss of these people I never knew, but to whom I am spiritually connected to.

So, why do we feel this rush to grow old? Especially since I now know that to grow old means to accept the emotional risk of losing everything. How can we possibly manage to come to terms with this inevitable end and maintain the discipline to achieve anything at all? The rush comes because we must first obtain the world before it can be taken away. There is a peace that comes with accepting the risk, and allowing these questions to ebb and flow throughout our lives with no definite answer. A peace that comes from accepting that we must grow old.

The boy who once prayed for this still does so with a full heart, even knowing that it means he’ll get closer to the end. He knows now to dream with the generations after him, that will lift up the same prayers as they seek to break the curses generations prior. He prays that one day he will rejoice as the elder of a village that will grow old together doing the things they love. Mann, I pray we grow old.