Recently, the gravity of mortality has become something I find myself thinking about rather often. Not in a morbid "we are all going to die and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it, life doesn't matter after all" kind of way, but rather, I've been deeply bothered by how society has given expiration dates to life before its natural time. It's no secret that we treat our elderly differently than we treat our young or even middle-aged citizens. We were raised to believe that we are infinite and promising. Phrases like "The sky's the limit," "You can do whatever you put your mind to," and "If your dream doesn't scare you, it isn't big enough" fill pages of yearbooks and graduation cards as we launch into the illusive Rest of Our Lives. We talk about goals, accomplishments and legacies, but often ignore the fact that, more times than not, once the grays outnumber the rest, the tense will shift. Some may still honor your accomplishments, your life's work and your legacy, but it will be spoken of when recalling "the good old days." Who you are now is merely the person who used to do this or that. I have seen precious people being pushed to the side because what they have to offer was only relevant in decades past; the world moves too fast to include everyone. You reach the mountaintop, and then you're just the guy who climbed the mountain but then needed a hip replacement.

I am bothered that there are people whose voices aren't heard because they have "had their time." Here's is an open letter to whoever has to deal with me when I join the ranks.

To the young people who visit my nursing home:

Let's cut to the chase: I am old. You know it, I know it. We all see it. My body has a lot of miles on it and has become the cause of so many problems nowadays. Problems you have taken upon yourself to solve, and for that I thank you. There’s a chance I can’t hear you well, maybe my eyes are going, too, and I’m going to start complaining around dusk every night with the same annoying joke each time: “Who turned off the lights?!” You’re talking about the newest, the latest, and it might go right over my head, and it won't surprise you because if I can't stand without a walker, how can I understand the flaws in the newest iOS update? But it also may peak my interest, and then you will be subjected to the barrage of questions I will ask in order to understand. I might want the AC on one minute and a pile of blankets the next, but what I need you to do now, decades ahead of this becoming a reality, is to listen.

Because there’s something you need to understand.

Right here, right now, when this was written, I am so very alive. The memories that I will share with you time and time again (most likely when you are trying to rush out the door) are not old, faded and irrelevant. They're not even memories yet. It may annoy you that I always talk about "when I was a little girl" but you see, those were the days when people listened to me; when my voice was loud and clear and counted. When I am thinking back to my youth, I am thinking about a time where the world was mine to change, similar to how you are now hoping your hand print will outlast your stay on Earth. But the world is no longer my oyster, and whether or not you mean to, the way you rush through visits reminds me of how little you think my past means to your future. But trust me, it's more relevant than you think. You read about political turmoil and social activism in your history books, but I could tell you all about what it was like living in it without understanding that we were making history.

So, please forgive me if I spend all of your time droning on and on about everyone who died this week. You see, I am now existing in a world where all of my memories are labeled vintage and sold in thrift stores. The ideals I worked so hard to uphold and build to outlast me have now become The Way We Used to Do Things that the next generation of young people will destroy in their quest to be seen. It's hard to watch everything you worked for lose its value and not feel as though you, too, have lost your value. Everything is new and shiny, and it's not that I hate change. However, there is something awfully lonely about existing in a world you cannot recognize.

I can say all of this to you now because I am watching it happen around me. I watch as some of the most influential people in my life pass from revolutionizing to reminiscing. Sitting here, several decades ahead of this letter becoming applicable, I am scared. I am sad. I am worried that what I will look like on the outside will stop you from trying to reach me. I can't make promises for my actions 50 years down the road (and, do be careful: I plan on using the "I'm old so I don't care" card rather frivolously, because why the heck not), but I can promise this much:

The essence of a person's being, their soul, cannot be altered by time, circumstances or even the failure of their physical body.

I will still be passionate, I will still have the capacity to love, I will still have something to say, I will still be listening.

I will still want to be seen.