Old man

I'm reading Donald Hall's Out of the Window essay. He describes life after 80. I take my time and enjoy the calming atmosphere, think.

I like old people. As a child, I preferred their company to noisy peers. I enjoyed sitting in their cool, dark houses and listening to their stories.

I loved watching eyes light up and backs straighten when old men boasted about their adventures. How old women smiled shyly and blushed like young girls, talking about their first love. How they all frowned and sighed, remembering the war, hunger, and adversity. How they fell silent recalling something too painful to share and tears flowed down their wrinkled cheeks.

They shared their memories, imbuing me with strength, wisdom, the spirit of freedom, and faith that I would survive the horrors of my childhood.

I never shared what was going on in my life with them—with no one, in fact. I didn't want to appear weak or upset those who loved me, so I lied that everything was fine and that I was happy.

As I look at the book's cover photo, I remember visiting my great-grandfather. When his wife, my great-grandmother, was still alive, they lived not far from my grandfather, their middle son, and I met them quite often. But when she died, and he was too old to take care of himself, he moved to his oldest son's house in another village.

I don't remember much about him. His name was Fyodor. He was a kind, intelligent man. He was rewriting old religious books.

I must have been around seven years old when I saw him the last time. The horrors in my life started when I was 6.

I remember entering his room alone. It was clean and had a Russian stove, a bed, and a table with old religious books. My great-grandfather was lying on top of the stove. I barely recognized him. He had a long gray beard. He spoke very quietly and got tired quickly. He was 84, but his mind was still sharp; he remembered many events in detail.

He shared different stories about his life and made me laugh. Then suddenly became very serious and started instructing me: "Remember, you should study. Knowledge is the only salvation."

"I will, Batiu*."

"And most importantly, respect, love, and care for your parents."

The smile left my lips, and I involuntarily pulled away, remembering my parents.

I wanted to ask him what to do if my parents were not what he imagined them to be and tell him about everything that was happening in my life. I could hardly hold back my tears. I looked at this kind old man and thought, "You lived such a long life, but you never learned the really important things."

I didn't want to upset him, so I hugged him and whispered: "I will, Batiu, I will."

*Batiu - is what we call old great-grandfathers and grandfathers in Moldova.