Although I know I’m lucky, being ninety-five still sucks. Sure I still have my wits about me and I manage perfectly well in this little house. But I’m lonely. Not the not seeing people sort of lonely, the watching all your friends die sort.
Last night I dreamed of my beloved Alfie. He’s been gone thirty years now, and I don’t know why I asked him what he thought of the skinny bag of bones I’ve become.
He grinned and hugged me.
“You always were a bag of bones…”
And that’s the most comfort I’ve had since he died.
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