Don't Remind Me

This is a work-in-progress essay tentatively titled "90 - A Venerable Age"

Walking along 82nd Street towards Madison yesterday after a lovely watercolor show at the met, I noticed the birds chattering among themselves in a cluster of trees. As I glanced up, I wondered, what do birds talk about? The sky was a clear blue, I felt lighter and softer than I had in days. I could almost see the smile on my face - and why not, it was a day without a Doctor's visit.

 

I was a block from home when I saw the gossip monger of our building coming towards me with hands outstretched. I knew then, it was too late to cross to the other side of the street.

 

"Jeanne," she squealed, grabbing both my hands, "I heard you had a ninetieth birthday. Why , my dear, you don't look a day over seventy."

 

"Thanks Carol, but how did you know it was my birthday?"

 

"Johnny, the doorman, of course."

 

"But I didn't tell him I had a birthday."

 

"No, but you got a lot of cards and I saw the flowers in the lobby and he told me they were for you." She leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. "You know what doormen are like - they're all gossips."

 

"Oh," I said out loud, but thought to myself, "she should know and isn't it too bad I'm too old for an affair - what fun she could've had with that?"

 

"Well, just between us, Jeanne-"

 

"Carol," I interrupted her, "I have to hurry; I have a friend waiting for me at the apartment." I finished the sentence walking away and muttering to myself, "what a bitch."