“What is Old?”
Story by Narelle Gene
Dancer from the Dance for Neurobalance class in Hawthorn, VIC
February 2025
What is old? A busy suburb I used to know is old. Shops where everything is the same but
worse. It’s dirty, it’s old, it’s had its day in the sun.
I’ve been a shopper in the suburb since the 1960s when my mother would park in a dusty car
park on a worn-out corner. The car park is still there, dustier and dirtier.
The views are all sad. Shopping is uninspiring. Faded window dressings, chipped paint,
dusty, old. Old is bad. Old is sad. Old is memories only the old remember. The young are
aloof. The old are slow.
I’m not old. I’m well-worn in a good way. My hair is pink. My clothes suit my body.
Eww, the awful, old bra shop. No way am I getting half naked in that dirty, old change room.
I surreptitiously leave via the back door that mocks me with its broken handle.
An exclusive homewares shop is my kind of place. Old in that store means that you have the
means to buy. Nothing old in that store.
The old suburb lost its glow years ago but I’d not noticed.
I’m organising a family reunion and it’s caused a burst of concern for the people younger
than I. A text has been sent by the grandma with Parkinson’s. Can she cope? Has she invited
everyone? Does she have the right phone numbers? Yes, she has … but I’m old. I have
Parkinson’s and just like that the job of organising a group of people to gather in a lovely
park on a certain date has been taken back by the young. Even my sister-in-law who is only
five years younger than I is concerned and she calls the eldest of the ‘children’ to take the job
away.
Am I relieved? Yes … but no. I’m like the suburb that’s sad, chipped, old, dusty and ill who
makes silly mistakes letting the gloss fade as I stumble on some stairs, remind myself to lift
my feet, so as not to fall. The last thing I need to confirm my fragility and frailty is to ‘have a
fall’, like the suburb fell when no one noticed.
Everything was fine and now it’s not. They took the job away. They took the job of gathering
in a park and handed it to a young, clean, fresh person who means well but needs to save me
from myself.
I cross the road obeying crooked signs, careful not to trip on the broken footpath that, like
me, is old and needs to be saved.
So, I fade into the day, trying not to take their care as anything but kindness.
Like a baby, they watch as I stumble and cannot lift myself up.
Oh, and the reason I went to the old, sad suburb was to go to Breast Screen to take care of my
health. To be proactive and responsible. To assert my ability to look after myself.
But I’d got it wrong. I arrived on the wrong day without my referral. Possibly because I’m
old. But I’ll keep all this to myself.