Resurrected?

I read in a scientific magazine article that our bodies which hotel billions of different cells, in seven years, have rid themselves of every cell and replaced them with brand new ones. And while they may look somewhat the same, there they are: all new over the seven year period. Does this mean we all become young again? Sort of. And not. Unfortunately, we don't renew all at once because the whole process of our bodily clients, moving out and moving in, is pretty slow, and what was new, gets old again over time. Also, the way our bodily machine works, certain cogs and wheels and gears are wearing, and aren't taking the stairs any more, but have to wait for the elevator. Often it is quite slow, if not broken down. Repairs work, but it isn't the same old elevator it used to be. Ah aging! I am in a time, that when the phone rings, I think, oh oh. And sadly I often have to say good-bye to yet another old memory associated with a dear one who has just died. The older you are, the more that phone rings with news that is supposed to be tragic, but, though sad in farewell, is expected. We mortals  cope with death, in saying things like "I'm not afraid to be dead. It's the dying part that I don't like  thinking about." I am not a Pollyanna, but I am a positive thinker, and I find aging, interesting and often, fascinating. We, if we bother to notice, are watching Life going by in our aging stages. The changes are quicker in old age, and  surprising. I remember looking at my farm grandmother's work worn hands that were soft and plump, but also, spotted and veined and wrinkled. I held them and gazed wonderingly at them, comparing them to my smooth ten year old ones. I traced the mystery of the blue lines on hers with my fingers, while my grandmother smiled down. We didn't need to speak of it. She knew life, that woman. She was a Canadian pioneer who saw a harsh, pitiless existence on an early Saskatchewan grain farm, one without electricity. There, she birthed eight children and only one didn't survive. Pity was a luxury. There was day to day work to be done with no vacations in between and everyone in the family, was needed to participate. The cooperative farmers went down when a protracted drought forced many to sell out and move to places like milder British Columbia. By then, on a large, beautiful tract of land, my grandparents spent their last years, indulging in their grandchildren. We all had summers on the huge farm land with horses and barns and cows and chickens. We  learned about hunting and butchering, gardening, gathering eggs and fishing in the salmon streams. We knew at an early age, that life was beginnings and endings. No one taught us, we looked, and saw and learned. It's a gentler time, now, and my cells have been renewed many times from that era to this. Because there aren't likely to be many more "resurrections", the reflection and acceptance of even aging,  have become familiar and comforting thoughts. The cells continue to change, and come and go.