Gentlemen, you might want to sit this one out . . . (Or you can just send it to some gal who needs a smile).
Sometimes just getting older is a daunting prospect in a world that constantly reminds us that youth is beautiful and getting older isn't. I will be forty-five in August and I am still not quite comfortable with just being forty-four, but it's getting easier.
This is my favorite verse:
These wrinkles mean I'm grown. They mean that I belong.
Keep livin' and someday you'll grow some wrinkles of your own . . .
He could hear them, owl, rats, cats, foxes and woman, winged child breathing. All of them soulless husks. Yes.That was what he meant.Soulless. Sleep was an absence of soul, a light out in the attic and nobody home. He knew--death entered a little more with each dawn, just before the waking.Crept in so's nobody'd notice it, catch it and stop it. Not bold, death--but a weasel prowling. It took its time, but it came in all the same.