They remind me of baby birds, except they’re lacking all enthusiasm.

I would answer except that my hand is over my mouth and it’s trembling. Apple, for God’s sake. She pats my other hand and leaves the room, discreetly ignoring my tears.

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.

I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.

Actually, it’s not so much that I’ve forgotten. It’s more like I’ve stopped keeping track.

When you’re 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’s 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

“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,

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

a way of buffering themselves against my future death,