You were still old, and older still, and you knew, from experience, the swiftness of time. I assumed an inexhaustible wealth of it would always be there, to wrap me up like a rifle in a blanket. I loved sitting at the side of the house, smoking, on top of the woodpile under the awning.
Life was so full of darkness and wet weather, it was hard to smile much in those days. Many armloads of years are stacked between now and then, but the Great Northern boxcars still rattle on by as they always have, screeching, shuddering.
Hungry dream-tigers still ripple their way around the moonrise, pacing, chasing wet blossoms of murky light, same way they did on my walks home from your place at 4 in the morning with my headphones on.
What a wreck we both were. The eyes dry up and life continues.