When Two People Are Meant To Be

When You Are Five, You Know Your Age Down To The Month. Even In Your Twenties, You Know How Old You Are. I'm Twenty-three You Say, Or Maybe Twenty-seven. But Then In Your Thirties, Something Strange Starts To Happen. It Is A Mere Hiccup At First, An Instant Of Hesitation. How Old Are You? Oh, I'm--you Start Confidently, But Then You Stop. You Were Going To Say Thirty-three, But You Are Not. You're Thirty-five. And Then You're Bothered, Because You Wonder If This Is The Beginning Of The End. It Is, Of Course, But It's Decades Before You Admit It.

I Strain To Hear, But My Old Ears, For All Their Obscene Hugeness, Pick Up Nothing But Snippets.

I Think There Is Just A Vein Of Humanity That Really Loves Animals And Really Loves To Read About Them.

I'm Truly Grateful For My Microwave, Which Allows Me To Easily Clarify Butter, Steam Vegetables, And - When I Am Really Lazy - Feed My Three Kids In Less Than Five Minutes.

I Tend Not To Think About The Reading Public At All, Or The Business, When I'm Writing.