Dare to rove, leave on the stove, they’ll lock you up as crazy old.

Old, we increase, then we shrink.

The old may wonder why they are still here; their grandchildren know.

We’ll end as we began, gathered up and carried to our beds, blinking and drooling, and there with tucks, and pats and hums we will be lulled to sleep in a cradled, rocking world that loves us.

To be old is to be rusted, pitted, painted steel.

Forgetfulness is the curse of old age; it’s also the blessing.

To forget a friend’s visit yesterday and to remember a slice of wedding cake eaten seventy years ago is the magic trick of aging memory.

Old is rest and old is jest, and old is a sly wink at death.

When the old are moved to the place called a home —  it won’t be.

Age graciously not pugnaciously.

Long life gives the gift of frequency, old age the gift of intensity.

The old out-remember the young, out-dance the middle-aged and outlive themselves.

None outlive love.

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