At Sixty
Sixty is no eschatological age, but a breathing pause after a good run. Sixty is no end and no beginning, but a hyperbolic notwithstanding, a parable of sowing and reaping, a metaphor of memories. Too early for farewells, too late for apprehensions, less heroic than at twenty. No, ya no me malogro, ni nadie me quita lo bailado. Twice thirty is twice lived and somehow doubly young, full of projects still and appetite, free of many certainties, while cherishing…
