She hadn’t meant to get old.
The years just kept passing without her permission, without any notice. They dropped little hints like holidays as often as they pleased, but they never stopped to tell her, “Oh, by the way, that’s another of us gone that you won’t be seeing again.” They never stopped at all.
The calendar of her mind was an endless progression of tomorrows stretching out into infinity, and it was full of appointments she’d made for some day, but the days slipped through her hands like water. One by one all the things she’d meant to do closed down, dried up, or moved away. She felt the loss of each one acutely, but never learned the skill of thinking of things as temporary additions to the universe.
Everything was permanent and eternal to her.
They just refused to stay.
She never learned to take things one day a time, but with a little effort, she learned not to take them personally.
It is depressing to think about how few people are left, that I have known for more then the last twenty years.