When he hear on the news that one of our teenage years idols has suffered a stroke, we realise there is only one thing to conclude: he are getting old.

Old

Closer to us or farther, it's a strange feeling when they go away. The old. As time goes by, sooner or later, each one of us must learn the lesson that, as each old person leaves this life, we become orphans of the past. The guardians of the child we where, where them. The guardians of the rocking wood horse, of the pedal race car, of the warm sweetened glass of milk, of those stirred eggs, of the chocolate bar on weekends, of the afternoon learning how to make pon-pons or the morning learning how to pray while making the bed, or the nights listening to tales with friends. Things we let fade for we rest asure, the old will guard them, while we are busy living. To them we have trusted our oldest memories, they are the trunk where we let our infance kept safe. But time takes one, then another. They depart, the houses are emptied, objects are scattered, all fades. Almost as if the precious safe places of our past have been violated. And suddenly it all comes back to us, those little unimportant details, in a vain attempt to hold on to the content inside that trunk.
It was with the old that we could be kids. It was with the old that we could still be silly and naughty, without being reprehensed. It was with the old that we were still only ten. They leave and take with them the child we will never be again. The adult stays behind, now the lonely guardian of faded memories. Trying to figure out how was it that time passed. In the blink of an eye.