When I see you I can’t help but think that age is just a vicious trick nature pays on the young. We are vain, and wasteful, ungrateful for our bodies which weather so quickly. And it seems so cruel to someone still full of life, still scared of age but timidly stepping into her rightful place as a woman, to see these stooped, shaking men… the ones who are pictured swinging joyfully from lamp posts just 50 years before… I wonder if they knew they’d get old. I wonder if they would weep to see the stooped man they’ve become. Do they stare at photos of themselves in their prime and ache for it? Do women like me remind them of girls they knew? Strong, kind, full of life and gumption. Is there a resentment that they feel when we smile sympathetically and speak softly, as if to a child, as if they never held a little brunette in their arms, as if they are fragile. But they are still men. They are still men! No less than they were, but for a few inches in stature, a few hairs, and color in their cheeks. Respect for my elders. Oh, but my elders were young once. And what a cruel, cruel thing to lose. I mourn for all the young men lost. I ache for their optimism, and naivete. What a beautiful thing it is to hold, like the warmth of a girl in your arms, the knowledge of which and absence thereof leaves you feeling cold. I try to freeze myself in time. I look for grey hairs and swing from trees. I am in limbo. And I mourn for all the young men lost.