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When I’m 64

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now,
Will you still be sending me a Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
If I’d been out ’till quarter to three, would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I’m sixty-four?

Hmm——mmm—mmmh.
You’ll be older, too. Aaah, and if you say the word, I could stay with you.

I could be handy, mending a fuse, when your lights have gone.
You can knit a sweater by the fireside, sunday mornings, go for a ride.
Doing the garden, digging the weeds, who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty four?

Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wightif it’s not too dear. We shall scrimp and save.
Ah, grandchildren on your knee, Vera, Chuck, and Dave.

Send me a postcard, drop me a line stating point of view.
Indicate precisely what you mean to say, yours sincerely wasting away.
Give me your answer, fill in a form, mine forever more.
Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty four?

Not so much, it turns out.

She’s living in Eastern Washington with her third husband.

I’m living here in Tacoma with my second wife.

Whodda thunk it? Both of our parents were married their whole lives. I guess I always assumed the same.

Guess I should’ve known better since everyone around us was divorced or getting divorced. But it never really crossed my mind.

And perhaps that was part of the problem.

As I’ve discovered, nothing lasts forever and thinking so probably means it won’t even last as long as it might otherwise have.

Today it seems the only thing you can really count on is the rain, at least here in the Pacific Northwest. Skye and I just got back from our daily walk, and the sky was as dark as Skye’s coat. We both came back soaked.