They pick up a fight
instantly. They tell you
what they want to hear:
I did this and I want you
to congratulate me.
They trade diagnoses
of their children, who are
well past middle age.
They lose friends in pairs.
They say one starts to ponder
death after seventy-five.
At eighty-five you wear it
like a bracelet— tight,
cold against the skin.
Their empathy thins
under the weight of all
they’ve already seen.
Every new day
another day
sloshing over the rim.
First Appeared in Moss Piglet (Spring 2026)