I Am Ninety. Or Ninety-three. One Or

When I First Submerged My Feet Into Frigid Water, They Hurt So Badly I Yanked Them Out Again. I Persisted, Dunking Them For Longer And Longer Periods, Until The Cold Finally Blistered.

The Thought Has Cheered Me, And I'd Like To Hang Onto That. Must Protect My Little Pockets Of Happiness.

... A Gaggle Of Old Ladies Is Glued To The Window At The End Of The Hall Like Children Or Jailbirds. They're Spidery And Frail, Their Hair As Fine As Mist. Most Of Them Are A Good Decade Younger Than Me, And This Astounds Me. Even As Your Body Betrays You, Your Mind Denies It.--there Are Five Of Them Now, White Headed Old Things Huddled Together And Pointing Crooked Fingers At The Glass.

I Have To Convince Myself That This Is Not A Pointless Life, Even The Body Is Telling Me So.

Jacob: I've Never Seen So Much Manure. Wade: Baggage Stock Horses. They Pack'em In 27 A Car. Jacob: How Do You Stand The Smell? Wade: What Smell?