“When I grow too old to dream, I’ll have you to remember.”
That is the way the old song goes.
I wonder if there are ONLY A FEW, OR MORE, young people, [[like around 50 or 60 years old) who have a Treasure Chest of memories, stored away, for less fruitful days and ways.
Carefree Days had ONLY 24 hours or so, for each one, when there was so much to do and accomplish. Those days flew by like lightening. Each one had its challenge to taunt you, to dare you to “jump over buildings in a single bound! [[Thank You, Superman.)
The reason for all this verbal folly, starts to fade.
At age 84 or so, the startling truth erupts. You are no longer growing old.
YOU ‘ARE’ OLD!
So, I wonder. What medicine do you might have to help you , not only survive, but to thrive, when you enter the Octogenarian realm.
Our meds, works for us. I can conjure up a milliard of extravagances of our early life that can make both of us giggle, gush, and sometimes, grieve, but with a pleasing memory.
Our meds are those incredible days of derring-do when I first held your hand, knowing that I would never let go.
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