Broken Old Heroes

I was driving through my old hometown.
It’s been a decade since I lived there, and the signs on the stores have all changed, and the names on the mailboxes have changed in some parts of town.

And I watch with a bit of confusion as the heroes of my childhood fumble across the street…

One man, white haired, his head hung low, to watch each tentative steps as they scrape across the asphalt.
His arms smaller, his back hunched,  his chest hollow, his mind dulled.

These were the lumberjacks, the soldiers, the factory workers, the janitors, the shoe salesmen, the intellectuals, the gentlemen I remembered…
whose strength were oaken,
whose constitution was golden,
whose witsPSX_20140604_103240 were sharp like blades.

And for a moment, I realize that in my own oncoming middle age, that this too may be my destiny.

I was a hero in my youth, jostling timbers, lifting stones, and running along mountains.

And now, I’m closer to my broken old heroes than I am to the young man I once was.