Age is oft times bitter, feeling in its failing health that wealth of life eluded it. Apologize somebody or some thing for leaving me to find the way I never found or could not find because it was not there or never was. But having seen the surge of youth, the sag of age in breast and chest and everything, I still say spring is overrated. Age is better. Less is expected of the once firm chest that drags a little lower, the robust voice reduced to murmur speaking slower.
Age can finally say aloud what it really feels and thinks in after dinner company or crowd.
No one blinks. If they do, no matter. Age is proof you got from there to here. Alas so many that you loved did not complete the journey. You mourn them, yes, and always will, but age is such a triumph over youth, again, because you moved across the years to here.