In very rare, Gatsbyish moments I sometimes think, “Well, boy, you’ve come a long way.” But most of the time, when I gaze upon my beloved mother in her wheelchair or stand at my father’s grave, I just tend to grow thoughtful, which is a slightly more genteel way of saying depressed. I miss my young parents. I miss the boy I used to be. Leon Trotsky, no less, once said: “Old age is the most unexpected of all the things that happen to a man.”
Such a simply written, deeply affecting piece. Thanks for sharing!
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