Life, like me, is short. And growth is childish.
We are all wise children.
Upon introspection, my 85 year old grandfather still feels resentful f0r being raised a poor child among seven others. My grandmother misses her mama. The last time I spoke with my other grandmother, before she became incoherent, she told me how she used to love playing basketball with the boys. She must have been 13, or 16, and she would steal the ball from all of the boys as her best friend laughed and looked on. I painted her nails light purple as she drifted off into her past.
So, when do we grow? Who says we ever do?
What poor children of New York City, a city that thrusts self-righteous independence on all of its lonely hearts. We meander silently through the underground, rushing to and from the next connection. We are all children in the playground, alone, waiting patiently for our turn on the swing.