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.

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 goin

“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,

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?

a way of buffering themselves against my future death,

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.

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

These old girls still have their marbles, and they’re good to me.