The matter is time itself. The time allotted. The days ordained. The life has been spanned, traversed with aplomb or angst, likely both, at different times or perhaps together. Life is not linear, never one act, the drama playing itself out on different stages, ourselves the actor on each, and the acted upon.

We have all heard the expression, haven’t we? Perhaps used it jokingly or disparagingly, or maybe realistically. “Over the hill.” What might constitute “over”? Is it 40? 45? 50?

“Over the hill” suggests decline. Climb and descent. The apex of life has been reached. It is all downhill from that point on, perhaps the snowball of time picking up speed as it rushes to the precipice of life’s end. The mountain’s peak is typically pictured in the center, a symmetry of time on either side. The peak or perhaps plateau smack in the middle.

What is middle age? Middle of what? Middle of a life span. Middle of adulthood. Middle for whom? A life span, while statistically calibrated, varies for each. The days appointed, the Bible intones. Each life stretched out by its Creator. Each fully realized, never shortchanged, by that divine deliberation. Middle age?—only God knows.

The grizzled centenarian whose life is measured in numbers of wars, survivors of each named by its region or scope, even though having fought in only one or two, or none. The eight-day-old baby who lived long enough to be known and photographed and missed. These skew the actuarial life span.  They draw a mountain large or small, each peaking at a midpoint of a life of its own. Unique. Significant. Real. Unknowable, at least before the fact.

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