A single gray hair with a slight sheen to it. I unfurled it to its full length, let it go, and then unfurled it again. I didn’t pull it out. I thought: I’m growing old. I’m growing old and the world has changed and I have never been truly known. A rush of raw melancholy brought tears to my eyes. This is all there is, this fragile breathing in and out. Where have all the years gone, and have I made the most of life? But what is the final measure for making the most of life, and how would I know if I have?
