Drinking coffee in the park from a brown bag with an old thermos inside, I am benched. Living long is squeezing me away from the center to the quiet periphery. Here there are fewer knowing looks fewer winks and nods and more staring off.
We laugh and chess it up to keep sharp. But back home, the dark wooden ceilings and creaking floors are telling tales of feet that have come and gone. The kettle is blasting, but here the ambulance and squad car mingle with the train and after work horn blowing and everything seems loud and intrusive, but over time, they disappear. Like missing persons that are everywhere in the news but slip into the not remembered when there is no happy ending, so too, senses are losing acuity and doctors are c'est la vie. As if the body can't remember who we are, our physical is forgetting its perfection and settling for approximation.
When I was 12, I knew more than anyone on earth. Now, I ask the doorman every day "Where do I always go at 9 in the morning?"