Not All Skittles

I don't really know what that phrase means. but in its entirety it's "not all beer and skittles." And since beer and skittles--whatever--are the best things in life, you get my drift.

I'm sitting in a fabulous boutique hotel in Columbus, Ohio, called The Lofts which was built out of an old warehouse in the "flatiron" district bordering the "Short North" district. Which--if you're really serious about history--was originally the "Red Light" district. I'm sure you know what that means. But I'm not here to have a grand old holiday. No, I'm here to make sure I see my father one more time before he's gone: 92, almost 93, and nothing but a bag or rags and bones; yet, his brain--although it slips into an alternate reality now and then (he keeps thinking my brother is married--now that's a true alternate universe!)--keeps him hanging on.

Between sleeping and fighting for air, he'll suddenly wake into total lucidity, understanding every iota of what goes on around him. I don't know whether this is better or worse than my mother's state of blissful dementia before she died, but I have to respect a brain that is just so sharp, so savvy, so always together, that it won't let go.

And I sit across from my sister, my eternally young beautiful sister, seven years older than I am and thus into her sixties. But she always--always!--to me, looked as if she could never age. And for the first time, I look at her and think "she's showing signs of age." She's still 10 times more beautiful and still younger looking than I am--no one else but me would see a change--but I see it. I see actual lines on her face. I feel as I hug her "hello" the bones that tell me she's lost weight without meaning to. I notice how much more quickly she tires--but how didn't she tire before, when she was doing corporate attorney work and travelling most days of the week? Maybe I'm the one who's really showing my age for even noticing these changes. But they are there.

The father I depended on to be the brilliant savvy one as my mother slipped into dementia, the one who rescued and cared for her when others would have locked her away. The sister who was the "tall, beautiful" one, the one my parents tried to tell me I beat in brains--until she aced law school and showed my she had it all, the looks, the height, the brains, the artistic talent. And my brother, only three years older, but seeming so frail himself, struggling to make ends meet when with his musical and artistic talent, he should have outstripped me long ago.

Where does it go? Where does youth and talent and brains and looks go after a certain time? And why does it take us so long to realize how fast they are leaving us? And when do we start to mourn their passing? And when do we realize that mourning isn't even appropriate? How do we feel regret when we know we had it all at one time?