“Sometimes when you get older—and I’m not talking about you, I’m talking generally, because everyone ages differently—things you think on and wish on start to seem real. And then you believe them, and before you know it they’re a part of your history,

“No thanks. I don’t smoke.” “No?” he muses, sucking in a lungful. “You should take it up. It’s good for your health.”

The sky, the sky—same as it always was.

I can’t find myself anymore.

a way of buffering themselves against my future death,

I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don’t know what’s going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation?

Death is a formal affair, and they’re dressed in their Sunday best.

They crash and bang and make themselves at home, mostly because there’s no competition. I’ve stopped fighting them.

Age is a terrible thief. Just when you’re getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back. It makes you ache and muddies your head and silently spreads cancer throughout your spouse.