I am a child with silver hair

My first documented arrival on the planet that I now share with you was in the United States of America a little more than three-score Earth years ago. In the grand, cosmic scheme, I am but a child, a baby of the boom.

The third of six children, the son a now long-dead alcoholic physician whom I rarely acknowledge and a smart, loving, hard-working mother who was single for far too long before she died, I am among the luckiest of men. I am loved by and tolerated by and married to a wonderful woman who keeps me alive.

And still I am but a child as I sit here wondering why my foot hurts and my knee aches so much for someone so young.

Though still a child in these crying, drying eyes, I have outlived a sister, and cousins and friends, and many, many faithful dogs, and some cats that I never understood.

My hair turned white somehow, somewhere along this lucky streak of mine.

My love calls it silver. I am a child with silver hair.

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