Aging

He came into the kitchen and found that Barbara had already made herself at home. She'd poured herself a glass of orange juice and had taken two bowls out of the cabinets and set them on the table. She was putting an apron when he sat down at the table and wiped his brough.

"Feeling like A'nt Jemima this morning?" he asked sarcasticly, a bit annoyed by her comfort in his kitchen.

"Come on now, Nelson, I'm very old fashioned. I think a man like you probably likes a little Cream of Wheat after he comes in from a jog on Saturday mornings," Barbara answered as she pulled the box and pans from the cabinet.

He smiled. "Yeah, I do, actually," he laughed. "My grandmother used to make for me on Saturdays. In fact, I think she might be a little mad with you when she gets here. She usually does the cooking if she visits me on a weekend."

"She won't mind me, trust me," Barbara answered. "Besides, you really need to talk to me before you talk to her."

Nelly sat up and leaned towards Barbara as she was running water from the sink. The loud trickle of the faucet's stream did not drown out his concern. "What is it? Is something wrong with her? Is she okay? Is she sick? Did somebody tell---"

"Hush!" Barbara commanded gently.

The delivery of the word hit Nelly's subconscious and he reflexively fell silent for a second. That was the same "hush" his grandmother and mother used to give him when he was a child. Then, he remembered that he was a grown man and continued a more rational line of questioning. "Is everything okay with my grandmother."

Barbara turned around and stared at him, thinking. Then, she decided to resume her approach with her back turned as she made the Cream of Wheat. "Nelson, this conversation is about you. The problem is with you, not her. That is why I am here to talk to you."

Nelly sat still. "I'm listening. Go ahead."

The mixture was cooking on the stove. Barbara took off her mits and sat down at the table across from him. "Tell me, Nelson, how old are you now, forty-five? Forty-six? A good-looking, strong young man in better shape then men half his age, right?"

"Yeah," Nelly grinned smugly. "Is that a crime?"

"Yes, baby, it is when you are like, um, you are." Barbara became nervous. "I mean to say that you can't keep going on like this right now. You are too youthful. You are holding back your aging entirely too much."

"What?" Nelly snaped, confused. "I take good care of my mind and my body. Most men my age would kill to be in this kind of shape. Hell, most men in their thirties can't even keep up with me."

"That's okay for now, Nelson, but soon, you're going to be drawing too much attention to yourself," Barbara continued. "Look, it's bad enough that most black men don't even live past sixty these days. How are you going to look to other people in another five years? These days, people will put up with a young Forty, but if you are looking too good at Fifty, honey, people are going to start talking about you." Barbara took a breath and continued. "And if you don't let yourself age some more by then, Nelson, these black folks around here are going to start being scared of you. Either you need to let yourself get old for a while, or you're going to have to move."