Growing Old Gracefully
I had five older brothers and four sisters-in-law. They’re all gone, dead, passed on, recycled—save one: my younger brother’s wife, Grace. Grace is one hundred going on one-oh-one. She can’t see; can’t walk, can’t hear very well, but Grace is lucid, sweet, smart, and beloved. She’s grown old gracefully, just as my mother said we should all try to do. Grace has 10 years, 8 months, 18 days on me. I can see, smell, taste, walk, even play tennis, but—thinking of Grace—can’t help contemplate my future. Will I, can I, grow old gracefully?
But I shall not think anymore about that today. Instead, I will make myself a sinful breakfast of bacon and buttered waffles amply laced with Vermont maple syrup; I shall read the newspaper; the New Yorker—maybe finish Archer Mayor’s Paradise City—take a walk; watch a bit of the Australian Open and, after that, catch the
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