Compost Studios

The financial planner handed them copies of his report and reviewed the recommendations.

"Based on current models, you can expect to live to 95, and your husband until age 92."

The numbers were in front of her, and at 46 she saw her life spiraling in two directions, one toward death, one toward birth.

Part of her was elated at the thought she might be less than half way through, and for a second her brain teemed with hope that she might have time to satisfy all her unfulfilled desires. But then the vision of a 95-year-old woman crashed her party, and she recoiled from frightening thoughts of a walker and a single bed, days spent alone, eyes glued to a spot on the ceiling.

She stared at her hands--already bony with prominent veins--and imagined them 50 years later, stiffened and covered with paper thin skin, purplish bruises that never heal, and age spots announcing decay.

What could those hands accomplish?

Would anyone hold them?

Would they dispense tenderness or tremble with the futility of having nothing left to hold on to?

Her husband saw his life as a straight journey from cradle to grave, a linear progression of events and milestones. He moved steadily forward and left everything behind.  There was no reason to waste time looking back or fret over what was ahead.  He was programmed to let the days of his life slide back and click behind him in neat rows, like the uniform beads on an abacus that calculates costs in dollars, not sense.

But her life was different. It was a long strand of multicolored beads coiled in the bottom of a deep pocket, the shapes irregular,  the beauty varied, the texture uneven. Each bead was a moment in time and they all touched one  another. The threads connecting them circled and spiraled and threatened to tangle and knot. She carried all her days and all her years with her at once, tucked into her pocket, heavy with meaning.

She could not discard a single bead of experience or failure, or relinquish her dreams and lighten her load. Even the rough and ugly ones mattered, a foil to the ones that shined. While the pearls of her existence were lovely and luminous, the best moments glowed  with energy and clarity, the color of wine and roses.  How many red days would she have? What would the color of her life look like in the end?

The financial planner continues to speak for nearly an hour. She and her husband are side by side, but they don't hold hands. Their legs don't brush each other under the table. Their shoulders don't touch. In theory, they have 42 more years of marriage ahead of them. He sits obediently with his head bent, studying graphs, tables, and pie charts. She is lost in thought, fingering the beads in her pocket, riding the wake of his words.

April 30, 2008