I scan the room. Catherine is writing quickly, her light brown hair falling over her face. She is left-handed, and because she writes in pencil her left arm is silver from wrist to elbow.
Sara Gruen
After sixty-one years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled.
death hand dying
Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn.
funny humor
Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.
life mind truth body denial betrayal
I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
romance
With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.
truth secrets
writing
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.
age
Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work, but important.
aging
Sometimes the monotony of bingo and sing alongs, ancient dusty people parked in the hallway in wheelchairs makes me long for death, particularly when -- remember that I'm one of the ancient dusty people, filed away like some worthless chotski.
90/93-year-old Jacob wonders as he gazes at his aged reflection, 'When did I stop being me?
There is no question that I am the only thing standing between these animals and the business practices of August and Uncle Al, and what my father would do--what my father would want me to do--is look after them, and I am filled with that absolute and unwavering conviction. No matter what I did last night, I cannot leave these animals. I am their shepherd, their protector.
inspirational animals
I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin.I want.
obsession desire want
Is where you're from the place you're leaving or where you have roots?
fiction
When I first submerged my feet into frigid water, they hurt so badly I yanked them out again. I persisted, dunking them for longer and longer periods, until the cold finally blistered.
And then I laugh, because it's so ridiculous and so gorgeous and it's all I an do to not melt into a fit of giggles. So what if I'm ninety-three? So what if I'm ancient and cranky and my body's a wreck? If they're willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus? It's like Charlie told the cop. For this old man, this IS home.
home old-age
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