Sentimental

When my mother writes their Christmas letter, it is often funny and newsy and light-hearted. When my father writes the Christmas letter, I get tears in my eyes. It happens every year he authors the letter. Here is an excerpt of this year's letter, which came in the mail today:

Growing older is not for sissies. We've both become aware of limitations that weren't there before and we've developed some medical problems. So far, nothing serious, but as we get older, it's hard not to dwell on them. And it's hard not to spend too much time thinking about the past. On the other hand, having friends who have known (and accepted) us for 30, 40, or even 50 years is very gratifying. Making new friends has been a wonderful and an unexpected pleasure these past couple of years.

Hanging onto hope, it seems to me, is the main psychological task of these years, and we're pretty good that that. And worry! What would I do with my time if I couldn't worry? I read recently that Virgil Thompson said that worry was the one form of prayer he found acceptable. I'd probably agree.

When my oldest grandson was here for a visit about a month ago, he and I looked out the west window of the sunroom one evening, toward a beautiful late fall sunset. I remembered this little poem by e.e. cummings, which, I think, speaks not only to a little boy, but to an aging man:

who are you; little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window; at the gold

of november sunset

(and feeling: that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)