I was reading yesterday morning.
I put the book down, took a sip of coffee, rested my arm on the arm of the recliner, and took in the magnificent quiet.
I do this often.
I made the mistake of looking at the back of my hand. It looks like an old man's hand.
It's wrinkled.
This disturbed me greatly. Now I can't stop looking at it.
It didn't happen overnight. Maybe I never noticed it because I did not want to notice it.
Keith paid me and Carol an amazing compliment recently when I was whining about being old. He said "You and Mom do not present as old." A spectacular thing to say. And truthful.
We are both close to 70 but we look much younger. Maybe 22. And we don't act old either.
But age is a motherfucker. It is relentless. Unless you are dead.
Sooner or later, age catches up to you. Apparently, sooner is here for me.
I am a bit off balance. I have 600 million miles to go to get to my own personal peace. I do not want to die in torment.
I need time.
Fucking wrinkled hand.
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