(I’m sitting beside my grandma, right now)
I asked her whether she liked the aroma of the coffee I served her. She told me she liked it, quite reluctantly, after which she complained that it contained way too much milk (I didn’t put milk at all – it was a 3-in-1). Damn, Nescafé instant coffee packets were always that perfect for me. But grandma claims that the milk taste was too extreme. I understood, and served her plain water instead.
Does age alter our taste buds? Does age obstruct us to savour, and make us extra sensitive to different eccentric flavours? Because I would never want that to happen. I love instant coffee packs with an enhanced milky taste. I love cheese.
(I’m still sitting with my grandma, at this moment)
She took out, from her pocket, the coin purse that my cousin bought from Shanghai as a gift. It was inexpensive, baby pink, with a little Chinese knot button in the middle. She showed it to me, with what seemed like an air of regained vanity, said, “it’s very pretty right?”
I nodded. At that moment the little oriental coin purse became extra pretty when clutched in her hands.
I don’t anticipate aging, not really. I don’t want to imagine the me in half a century more to come, if time permits. It is rough – we become children again. We need people to assist us to the bathroom. We need people to cook for us. We may not be able to get the television controller ourselves. We may not remember our passwords to unlock our mobile phones. We need people to be constantly there for us.
Maybe age does let us forget how beautiful roses and lilies are. Maybe age does let us forget how amazing the aroma of coffee smells. Maybe age does let us feel inactive, because we sit in our homes, forlorn, if not, look at our grandsons and granddaughters, preoccupied and fumbling with their own gadgets. But maybe age does diminish our demands for thrill, for the complicated measures that can never make us satisfied, and not in the very least, happy.