Greetings, friends of the Silver Blogger community, I'm stopping by again because I want to continue leaving my memories, memories that could eventually be read by my great-grandchildren when they're older. That's the hope, the dream, that this will truly continue and that they will have direct testimonies from their ancestors, in this case mine.
Sometimes I feel like having one of my ancestors around and asking them questions that weren't really of interest to me when they were with me. But now they arise as questions that remain unanswered because I'm older too, and they've been gone for a while. I want to share this secret with my daughters. One of them laughed a lot when she found out. I hope, if I'm lucky, that I don't go through the same thing in a few years.
When I was a child and saw very old people, I thought they no longer understood anything about life, so I openly ignored them. There was a neighbor named Julián who always sat at the door of his house, that's how I remember it, and when I passed by with my mother, she would stop to greet him and chat with him about everyday things, and they would laugh.
The man seemed nice, very kind, and funny, and my mother was very sociable. I didn't like him because he often commented on my way of dressing. I don't know if I've told you in this community that because I had a very strict father, who made decisions even about what I should wear, I was forbidden some items, and my dress code was skirts below the knee.
Once, my mother cut out a white dress for me to wear every day. When he saw me walk by, he asked if I was going to make my first communion, and that offended me. I grew more indifferent, adding to my belief that older adults were completely ignored.
From that moment on, this man was put on the list of those set aside when I walked by alone on that sidewalk, and he, as always, was sitting there, not even looking at me. I walked very straight, and since I was always very serious, I did so with my face upturned, looking into the distance. I must add that I was very shy, and it wasn't difficult for me to remain silent.
But this wasn't the only case. Every time I was around a very old person, I simply ignored them because I believed they didn't see, didn't hear, and didn't understand anything about life.
I maintained this until I was older, even when I met my then-husband's grandfather. When my daughter first met her great-grandfather, she spoke to him and spent time with him. He was quite elderly, almost ninety years old. He would sit and gently rock in a hammock. My daughter, who was about four years old, liked to comb his white hair and looked at him with affection. But I never spoke to that man, to be honest. I don't think I even greeted him, for the same reason: I believed that older adults practically didn't exist anymore.
Here I am, thinking about these things.
Now that I'm an older adult, this topic often crosses my mind, and I imagine what happened to me at the time: that someone younger would completely ignore me, because they assume I no longer have thoughts. I don't know if God will give me the chance to experience it; time flies, and I chase it.
My content is original.
I used Google Translate.
