Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Diary of a Geriatric Scarlet: November 18, 2050

NaBloPoMo November 2015
Today I made my way to midtown to break bread with an old friend. We went in for Mexican. I learned after we had been seated that my friend had eaten at this same exact Mexican restaurant three times this week so far.

I poised my granny glasses upon the bridge of my nose and looked over them, pinning my friend with an unwinking stare.

"Three times?" I said, adjusting the fringe on my burgundy silk scarf. "Three times you lunched right here in midtown east?"

"I had the steak tacos each time too," he replied with a quirk of his wisened old face.

I took a cool sip of iced tea and my friend went back to arranging his cane alongside the table.

When you're young, you might finish each other's sentences. When you're old, you don't bother. Not only don't you bother to vocalize a few words you both know are inevitable, but you don't bother finishing entire conversations when you both know the ending.

I didn't bother to say, "It would frighten me to flatline before I'm dead."

And my friend didn't bother to say, "Once I settle, I see no point in unsettling."

But when I'm gone, I fervently hope my ashes settle well. I hope my ashes settle amongst dried leaves and moss and a loamy forest floor like we've always been as one.

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