I’ve had enough of good-byes—I’m switching to see ya laters.
The older I get the more appealing this leave-taking becomes. There are fine lines bracketing my smile, and my hands and throat are somehow growing old without me. Especially my throat; everything is slowly sliding south. It appears to be a convention of ageism to which the rest of me has not been invited. Continue reading “Of Necks, Newspapers, and Death”