Not Enough Rainbows, or Growing Old Disgracefully
By JB Polk
The day after I turned sixty, I spotted my first gray hair. Not just any gray hair hiding among the others, but on the right temple, closer to the ear than the brow and painfully visible.
As I brushed my teeth, the lamplight shifted slightly, revealing its presence—silver, like a strand of moonlight. It’s funny how I didn’t notice it until that day, even though it could have been there for ages. I mean, I probably didn’t notice because I’m blonde. My hair is this caramelly yellow tone, just like the amber I used to fish out of the Baltic Sea when I was ten. So I plucked it. Deracinated it (meaning uprooted). Eradicated it. Away from my head! I yelled, taking some creative liberties and paraphrasing the Queen of Hearts.
Some might argue that I’m lucky. I mean, sixty and a day, growing out my first gray hair. Fantastic genes, I suppose. My mother, who always said she wanted to grow old disgracefully, meaning purple hair, slim-fit jeans, the reddest lipstick on the market, and no bra, used to send me images of herself boxing with a sparring ball at eighty. For laughs, of course, to entertain the neighbors’ kids. I’d share them on Facebook with the caption, “Octogenarian training to represent Poland in the Senior Olympics.”
A year later, she bumped her toe on the threshold. After three weeks, the wound was one big mass of rotting tissue refusing to heal. She had her leg chopped off at the ankle, followed by a heart attack.
“Old flesh heals poorly,” the doctor told me on the phone.
I could hear reproach in his voice because I was not there, in the hospital room, to care for my aging parent.
“Nothing else to do but amputate; otherwise, it will spread to the knee and beyond.”
After that, she went downhill pretty fast.
Because of the distance (12 thousand miles and the Atlantic between us), I could travel only once a year. I visited her again in March 2018. On the first day of spring, it snowed, with temperatures dropping to minus ten and huge drifts nearly burying my car. Despite the weather, I made it to the hospital.
“This is it, the last farewell,” Mom said with a touch of drama two weeks later, just as I was about to head to the airport. The snow had melted, daffodils were starting to bloom, and the beautiful landscape provided a striking backdrop to our goodbye.
She lisped, and her mouth curled to the inside because her teeth were floating in a glass by the bed. Little was left of the blue rinse, and under the hospital gown, of course, there was no bra. Not to mention the slim-fit jeans that were probably on a hanger in a charity shop.
Given that she’d said the same thing to me for the last twenty-five years, I brushed her off, trying to convince myself (and her) that it was yet another one of the theatrics she loved to indulge in.
“See you next year!” I whispered and secretly dried my tears with the sleeve of my jacket because I felt she was right this time. She was, and I never saw her again.
Six whole years have passed. Since then, my life has been a roller coaster of emotions, with the cherry on top – the pandemic. First and foremost, as a single mother, the dreaded “empty nest” trauma hit me like a ton of bricks. Like I REALLY went through it intensely and then some: first, when my son moved out. And just when I thought I was recovering like an alcoholic who’d gone cold turkey, my daughter, a pilot, literally flew the coop.
It is a bit tricky to figure out what to do with all that newfound freedom one has as a mature adult. But as they say, it’s a chance for some serious self-discovery and personal growth. I convinced myself to embrace it and see where this empty nest adventure would take me because, like my dear old mom, I had this burning desire to age in the most disgraceful way possible. Maybe not precisely with a blue rinse (perhaps time to reconsider in view of the pesky gray hair?) and slim-fit jeans, as I’m a curvy size 18, but with a newfound sense of freedom. And adventure.
Retiring from full-time employment was the second earth-shattering revolution. After twenty-three years of working in the same place, doing the same things, and meeting the same people, I finally decided it was time to move on and pursue my dream of becoming a writer. Full-time—not just on weekends and summer holidays. Not too late for a Pulitzer and maybe even a Nobel Prize – Doris Lessing was 87 and 355 days when she got hers!
I realized that time was a finite product, and there was only a little of it left to do the things that mattered—not just the routine tasks of picking wet towels from the bathroom floor, tucking away the corners of sheets while making beds, and tidying up the clutter on the kitchen counter. I’ve done all that and more, and now was my chance to start chasing rainbows and maybe even find the occasional crock of gold at the end of one.
I yearned to make the most of every moment and experience life to the fullest, efflorescing (quite a word, right?) into the best version of myself. I wanted to grab life by the horns, by the udders, by the hooves—like a San Fermin bull charging at me at full pelt! But even though I still feel young (with Clairol Natural Instinct Honey Blond, gray hair is no longer an issue), I can’t help but feel a sense of urgency as the sands of time are slipping through my fingers, disappearing faster than I can hold onto them and turn them into something meaningful.
To get a head start on my bucket list, I decided to cram in as many adventures as I could. I jetted off to Colombia, Uruguay, and Argentina in rapid-fire succession. But Kilimanjaro, my elusive childhood dream, remains a hazy, snow-covered mirage on the distant horizon. I have to admit I’m starting to get a little worried here. Am I really still cut out for the climb? Or will I have to be content to sit at the foot of the majestic mountain and gaze up at its magnificent peak in awe? It’s like a race against the clock. I know because Mom went from being a boxing champ to disabled in no time.
It’s a real bummer to think that I might not be able to do all the things I’ve dreamed of. But then I give myself a good shake and remember that even planning a trip is an adventure in itself! And if I’m not strong enough to find that crock of gold, the memories made along the way will surely be priceless treasures that I can carry with me, like I used to store the bits of amber I collected on the Baltic coasts every summer. And I will carry them till… till the day I can no longer remember things.
The past few years have been a whirlwind. I’ve read countless books, enjoyed delicious meals with my friends, strolled for miles with my dogs, witnessed breathtaking sunsets and dipped my feet into icy waterfalls, found exciting new hobbies, and gained a whole new understanding of who I am. Life sure knows how to keep me on my toes! But when it’s time to finally wrap things up, no matter how many things I try or places I visit before it’s curtains for me, I fear I will always feel that life’s never long enough to catch all the rainbows.
Meanwhile, I’ll just keep on aging in the most outrageous way possible.
JB Polk is Polish by birth, a citizen of the world by choice. First story short-listed for the Irish Independent/Hennessy Awards, Ireland, 1996. Since she went back to writing in 2020, more than 100 of her stories, flash fiction and non-fiction, have been accepted for publication. She has recently won 1st prize in the International Human Rights Arts Movement literary contest.
Artwork Source: “In Search Of,” Maria Pianelli Blair
Artist Statement: “In Search Of” is an analog collage, featuring vintage magazine advertisements and ephemera. It celebrates the thrill of the unknown and an eagerness to find one’s next adventure.
Maria Pianelli Blair is a writer and multidisciplinary artist based in New Jersey. Her artwork has been published in Contemporary Collage Magazine; FEELS Zine; Photo Trouvee Magazine; and Chill Mag, among other publications, and featured in both galleries and virtual exhibitions. Her writing has been published in Gypsophila Magazine, swim press, StepAway Magazine, the Staten Island Advance, and New Paltz Times. You can follow her on Instagram @strange_sunsets.
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