Lessons of Age on Granville Street

The clouds clung to the Granville Street towers, where everyone is locked up punching in the time cards and watching the moments pass until they can escape and actually begin to live. It isn't so bad being couped up on a day like this. The dampness wraps around you like an unwanted touch of a previous lover, and the wind punctures your soul.

The jostling of the city is at a minimum. Almost eerie silence until she claims a seat beside me. She fidgets with a ziplock bag, worn and soiled and offers it to me. She explains that she used it for her quarters and discarded it upon the cafe table because people think she uses it to carry marijuana. Without much promting, she proceded to reveal tidbits of her life. She's a senior, living on the North Shore with 2 cats, moving at the end of the month and finding it difficult to hire movers, an artist dabbling in oils, researching as an occupation which she cannot talk about, injuries galore; her most recent from a bike/car accident.

Her story continued, lasting two cigarettes and before she got on the #4 she gave one last bit of advice, "Some people age with grace like a vintage wine, and others just seem to age."