Growing Old

Around the time I am thirty nine, I

would like to move on from here. No, this is not

a considered thought, just a random number

plucked out of the air; and I do not know

what this moving on entails. But thirty nine,

that would be ten years from now. Surely

a lot of time. To have fallen in love, thrice, to

have found reason to dye my hair, to have

fought and lost the battles about the curtains, and

to have realized

that there is not much point to it, after all.

Ten years from now seems to be a good time, to

have seen life, and for leaving in a blazing summer afternoon-

you know, the kind of day when everyone tells you, better

wait for a few minutes. There will be many unknowns, and

a lot of life will be left uncollected-brown leaves on your favourite road, left

waiting for a walk the next morning-but then, when it all ends,

all the pieces are collected. One afternoon, you merely walk out, and

before they realize, you are gone. And, they replace you.