within the folds of wrinkles lie secrets, i imagine. with each ring of it's trunk, the tree grows wiser. this is the only reason i'd want to see 90.
sunday brunch with uncle john, my grandfather's last-standing sibling. i sit amongst relatives i have never met or don't remember, and i'm sure john feels the same. his wife's been gone for two years now. another ghost i can't recall. he blows out the wax number-shaped candles and i wonder what a near centenarian has left to wish for. he receives 14 bottles of wine and a subscription to the fruit of the month club.
my grandfather is the youngest of 4. just 5 years john's junior. in his late life he has buried many friends, 2 siblings and a son. i want to ask him what it's like to live to be old, to accept the rule of mortality. but i don't dare. instead i take snapshots in my mind, suddenly missing john, a man i do not know.

"Oh, the last time how clearly you see everything; as though a magnifying light had been turned on it. And you grieve because you hadn't held it tighter when you had it every day."- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith