His photocopied photo is overlooking me as I sit on the couch, reading. He has been gone nearly 69 years, but I feel his eyes on me.
“You never got old,” I whisper at the photo. “You never had a chance.”
I wonder what he would have been like older. Would he have been like his older brother, my grandfather?
And while I look at him, young, healthy, strong, I wonder, what will we be like when we are old? What will I be like?
Will I be?