A blessing. A curse. Squeaking and squawking all day Short of breath And patience. With the trips to the doctors And restroom The high bills for medicines. As if nature is Hinting It is time to go. You begin to wonder Maybe Mother Nature knows best. But in the grey dullness of the day There are Proustian moments When dozing in the afternoon The past invades the present Vivid images alive and clear Bathed in a golden glow Come glittering Seeping through. At those moments My mind is then crystal clear and my limbs supple again. Fragmented memories from my school days in the hills of north Pakistan of the laughter of class fellows after a successful prank or creating an awkward moment for a teacher the physical exuberance after a hard game of tennis the joy of hitting a boundary or scoring top marks. The world was young and the future limitless. The beautiful face of my bride, The radiance of my children, The undulations of a long life Are with me. But now I am confused am I seventeen again or over seventy? I am no longer sure. Which one is reality and which one illusion? And does it matter? Those images from the past Float about me And as they evaporate They leave me faintly smiling With moistness Around the edges of my eyes. And I hear the distant voices of my grandchildren asking is gran’pa alright? (and when did I suddenly become gran’pa?) He hasn’t moved for a while? He couldn’t be …? And somewhere Suspended between 17 and 75 I chuckle gently With compassion and love And say to myself. You too my dears Will be exactly In my position When the cycle of life Picks you up. They say Those golden moments Will never return. They are wrong. Those moments have never left. And I can say “I’ve seen things You people wouldn’t believe.” And do I have any lessons for you? Only this: You must live your lives With compassion, commitment and integrity. In the end Nothing else matters Money,lands and properties Will be left behind But savor the passing moments For they will return Unexpectedly and blissfully To be your companions, Not “lost in time, Like tears in rain,” As you prepare to sleep. The writer is the Ibn Khaldun Chair of Islamic Studies, School of International Service, American University, Washington, DC