By Eamon Scarbrough
I have certain priorities as a 21-year-old man: those of a student, a prospective college graduate, and eventually a member of the workforce.
Many people have similar priorities, and one of the main factors that I have seen differentiating these goals is age.
For example, my priorities will certainly differ from those of my professors, most of who have families and various and sundry responsibilities such as mortgages and car payments.
One additional priority that makes me feel like a part of the aforementioned group snuck up on me and shocked me with its sheer reality. My grandparents are both in the last 10 years of a century, and with the myriad of changes I’ve witnessed in them since I was a little boy, I’ve had to come to terms that I may not be seeing them for much longer.
I had a healthy, generally enjoyable childhood, and I can’t credit my grandparents with acting as my caretakers or guardians because my mother was too busy for me—no, nothing as dramatic as that.
However, some of my fondest memories so far recall sitting in the cabin of my grandfather’s RV, going everywhere from Salt Lake City to Mount Rushmore.
A few years ago, my grandparents sold the RV along with the car they would tow behind it in case we wanted to leave the campground to explore our destinations.
This sale signified, for me at least, that things were changing in my grandparents’ lives, including their priorities.
The swimming pool that I would belly flop into during the summers sits stagnant, collecting leaves on the dust-covered tarp that hangs over it. Their ancient house, from the beautiful green ceramic tile in the living room to the obsessive collection of princess dolls in the room that I have to sleep in (of course) breathes two generations of our family.
Now the figureheads of our family are reaching their culmination, and I have to admit that I’m scared.
Coming from a family that isn’t completely unfamiliar with the concept of death (from age or otherwise), I can accept that a human being can’t live far past 100. It feels somewhat different, however, when one has to face the fact that some of the dearest people to my heart—and giant influences to my character—won’t be around anymore at some point soon.
The uncertainty of death’s arrival makes the pride of a life’s culmination a bittersweet affair, but I know my grandparents will be closing the chapter on amazing lives.
Greater prospects await them.