I was asked twice yesterday how old I was.
The answer was the same on both occasions. Forty-two I said.
The first man asking was a sprightly ninety-two, still sharp. It was a long over due visit and our conversation had turned to people now deceased.
Lost in the reveries of our words he said for a moment he had thought I was the same age as him, which had compelled him to ask my age.
That evening I was asked again by someone else and it made me remember the earlier conversation that day.
So what do we do with this, this information, for lack of a better word?
I’m not sure, but I’m pretty certain there’s a painting in there somewhere.
A painting!?.
Yes, a painting.
Maybe not this year, or next year. Could be when I’m ninety-two.
Happily, there will be a lot of paintings in the interim, some of which are readily available here.
Have a nice weekend.
Hi, I'm Jimmy.
On this site, I share how writing and painting can provide meaning and enhance our lives.
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