“I wish I was young again,” said my aged companion Crisp as we ate our lunch beside the road to Norfolk.
Crisp had grown old gracefully and when I asked her what prompted that thought she looked over at the young girl sitting at the edge of the pond dangling her feet in the water.
“Some days I wish I could still do what I could when I was her age,” she replied a hint of wishful thinking in her voice. “Look at her, not a care in the world, if I sat there I doubt I could get up.”
We were both aging and ached and whinged from time to time but we tried to limit our complaining to once a week. But seeing the young flitting around always seemed to bring on the morose in Crisp.
She looked away, remembering, and took another sip of her tea.