“Have you seen the change?” my wife of thirty years asked quietly.
“Oh believe you me, I have seen the change,” I replied, shaking my head soberly. “I’ve seen it when I get up in the morning, and marvel at the wrinkled skin of my shaking hand as I reach for my glasses and pills on the bedside table.”
“I see it in the eyes of the young people on the street who don’t even notice me as I shamble by, or worse, look at me with pity or disgust for having the audacity to live this long.”
“But most of all I’ve seen it when I look in the mirror and a man that looks like my father stares back at me, a white-haired, bespectacled man with the grooves of a lifetime of tragedies and triumphs carved into his face.”
“So, yes,” I said with a wry smile. “I have seen the change, my dear. The answer to your question is a resounding yes.”
“No,” she said with a sigh. “I meant have you seen the dish with our spare change in it. I need quarters to do laundry.”