Weary
October 29th, 2026
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That is me. So far, I don’t believe in reincarnation, but that was me at that age, or at that time. I never had a cane, but I had many sticks, which are better than a frail cane. Sticks are robust, still alive with sap and bark. Strangely, I don’t recall having a portrait painted of me with a stick or a cane. Or any portrait painted of me, in any case. I had a lot of photographs taken of me, though. Some of them are still somewhere in a family collection. Unfortunately, the photos don’t show a cane or a stick either. At least those that have survived up to now. No matter. I can go and get a stick now; I have a few stored in a safe place (they are for my niece, but I am sure she wouldn’t mind). I can also get a cane; there is one left by my grandfather stored in the same place as the sticks. Still, a cane and not a stick — that is me in this painting. Same hair, same defensive posture, same asymmetrical ears and facial features. And weariness. That is definitely me. I didn’t know then, when I was at that age, or at that time, that children were not supposed to be weary. I know it now. I know that as an adult, weariness is a part of mature life. For me, I had an early start. I had a lot of things on my mind; I was a witness to things that children are not supposed to witness. I read too much then, and I was always the first to play sports — not just to fit in, but also because I was so good at sports that I could feel in control of something. In control of my weary body and mind. It wasn’t supposed to be like that, but clearly I wasn’t the only one. That doesn’t bring any comfort, but rather only a vague curiosity.
