BY MAX WALLER
Dear Ebenezer,
I am writing to you as a young man of fifteen years, from my school boarding house, hoping this letter finds you in good health (and wealth!) as an old man—presuming, of course, you have managed to survive the endless, merciless winters here in England, which always seem so viciously cold.
It is bitingly cold here today on Christmas Day, in this old schoolroom—colder still for the lack of surrounding human bodies that usually fill these austere spaces with warmth. Strange as it may seem, I find myself becoming increasingly adapted to the cold—you might say I’ve made it my friend.
Speaking of friends, I don’t wish to alarm you, but I’ve been maintaining a communication of sorts with those strange voices that visited me as a child. They continue to keep me good company, though I’m loath to tell anyone about them but you, whom I trust implicitly—after all, you are me, and I am you. Besides, I’ve heard far too many grim tales of sanatoriums and have no intention of visiting one if I can help it. No, I shall keep these ‘friends’ secret and hope they don’t prey upon me so often that I lose all sense of what is real and what is not.
Lately, I’ve taken to imagining myself much later in life—well-adapted to hardship and never prone to seeking sympathy, which I detest. I shall never seek sympathy for what—or whom—does me wrong, nor shall I offer it to those searching for it in me as though it is expected or guaranteed. Man must make his own good fortune, don’t you think? Yes, in some ways, I am grateful for this solitude in midwinter. It gives me time to reflect on what I lack that others possess—warm company, good cheer, ebullient laughter. This cold air, I sense, is seeping into my soul, making me far stronger than the weak people I see around me. I vow to you, Mr. Scrooge, that I will ensure you have no reason to harbour regrets later in life. You shall have all that a man can desire: a dutiful, loyal wife, a gathering of children, and perhaps friends—just so long as they can be trusted.
In the distance, I hear a choir singing God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen, and I must say it warms the heart to hear it carry from so far away to where I am seated, at my desk, writing these words to you.
Yet, there is another chill that grips me—one not of the winter air, but of the fear of time’s relentless march. In my quiet moments, I contemplate the spectre of aging, the inevitable decay of the body, the pain that comes not from the cold but from within. The thought of my joints stiffening, my back bending under the weight of years—haunts me like a ghost not yet born. I dread the day when every step is a reminder of my mortality, when the mirror reflects not the face of youth but the map of countless winters etched into my skin. The idea of my bones aching with every movement, of my hands trembling, unable to pen letters like this one—it is a silent terror that whispers in the night when the world is asleep, but my mind is awake. Will I become one of those old men, hunched over, each breath a labour, each day an endurance test against the ravages of time?
This fear is not just of the physical pain, but of the loss of autonomy. To be dependent on others, to lose the ability to care for oneself, to have the vigour of youth traded for the frailty of age—it is a trade I wish to reject. Yet, I know the terms are not mine to negotiate. I see it in the old caretaker here: his eyes dimmed by cataracts, his hearing dulled by the years, his spirit perhaps still young but trapped in a body that betrays him at every turn.
But then, amidst this dread, I wonder if this fear might be my greatest teacher. Perhaps it is this very apprehension that drives me to live more fully now—to make each moment count before it becomes a memory rather than an experience. Maybe this fear of becoming an old man, groaning under the burden of life’s toll, will push me to seek out joys, to laugh louder, to love more fiercely, to grasp at the fleeting beauty of life with both hands.
I wonder, dear Ebenezer, if you, in your old age, have found solace from this fear, or if it still lingers—an unwelcome guest at the feast of your years. Do you find peace in the wisdom that age brings, or does the pain of the body overshadow the mind’s resilience? I hope you have discovered some secret to defying this fear, or at least to living with it, as one might live with an old, familiar companion.
Now, as I write, the choir’s song fades, leaving behind a silence that seems to echo my thoughts. I must not let this fear paralyse me but rather propel me toward a life well-lived—a life where, even if my body fails, my spirit does not.
I shan’t write much more, other than to wish you a very Merry Christmas, old man, and hope you now note how well this letter from your past has aged, like a vintage wine.
Never forget: life, though it may be hard, is always abundant in opportunities to defy its endless miseries. And perhaps, in the face of growing old, the greatest defiance is to live each day as if it were our last—to embrace the pain as part of the journey, to love life even when it aches.
Warmest regards,
Ebenezer
24th December, 1798
Max Waller is a Gloucestershire based writer who has dabbled in film, opera and theatre. Having suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune on the periphery of Hollywood, he is currently developing a fresh new slate of creative projects in 2024 along with several collaborators and hopes to help restore some sanity with his keen weather eye for the cultural zeitgeist, tradition and occasional whimsy. His blog Digital Renegade features an eclectic mix of short stories, cultural essays and personal remembrances.