Palm Desert

Old age is the time when time becomes stranger and stranger, and not less complicated as previously advertised.

The oranges on the tree in the garden are as sweet or sweeter than ever, but impossible to pick without help and help is unreliable, not what it once was.

Cold is colder and heat is better but not too hot, just right. And the temperature is never just right.

Memories are ever present, meaningful for the most part, full of places for light to get through. What was once obvious, known, demonstrable turns mysterious or, worse, not worth having known at all.

The oranges, past their blossoms, wait on the tree.