Water for Elephants

by Sara Gruen

I meant what I said, and I said what I meant . . . An elephant’s faithful—one hundred per cent! —THEODOR SEUSS GEISEL, Horton Hatches the Egg, 1940

But then in your thirties something strange starts to happen. It’s a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation. How old are you? Oh, I’m—you start confidently, but then you stop. You were going to say thirty-three, but you’re not. You’re thirty-five. And then you’re bothered, because you wonder if this is the beginning of the end. It is, of course, but it’s decades before you admit it.

Sometimes I think that if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I’d choose the corn.

Age is a terrible thief. Just when you’re getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back. It makes you ache and muddies your head and silently spreads cancer throughout your spouse.

Although there are times I’d give anything to have her back, I’m glad she went first. Losing her was like being cleft down the middle. It was the moment it all ended for me, and I wouldn’t have wanted her to go through that. Being the survivor stinks.

Is where you’re from the place you’re leaving or where you have roots?

I’ve decided it’s not about me at all. It’s a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home.

Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s really the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.

It’s no good. Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes, I can’t find myself anymore. When did I stop being me?

When will people learn that just because you can make something doesn’t mean you should?

With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.