When Two People Are Meant To Be

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

When You Are Five, You Know Your Age Down To The Month. Even In Your Twenties, You Know How Old You Are. I'm Twenty-three You Say, Or Maybe Twenty-seven. But Then In Your Thirties, Something Strange Starts To Happen. It Is A Mere Hiccup At First, An Instant Of Hesitation. How Old Are You? Oh, I'm--you Start Confidently, But Then You Stop. You Were Going To Say Thirty-three, But You Are Not. You're Thirty-five. And Then You're Bothered, Because You Wonder If This Is The Beginning Of The End. It Is, Of Course, But It's Decades Before You Admit It.

I Am Ninety. Or Ninety-three. One Or The Other.

I Am Further Back, Surrounded On All Sides By Wailing Men, Their Faces Shiny With Tears. Uncle Al Promised Three Dollars And A Bottle Of Canadian Whiskey To The Man Who Puts On The Best Show. You've Never Seen Such Grief-- Even The Dogs Were Howling.

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.