Water for Elephants

by Sara Gruen

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.

I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don’t know what’s going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation?

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.

Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes, I can’t find myself anymore. When did I stop being me?

But I’m grumpy, because maybe I don’t. I don’t know anymore. I’m so used to being scolded and herded and managed and handled that I’m no longer sure how to react when someone treats me like a real person.

What, exactly, makes me think I’m trapped?

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