We were 25 forever, more or less. Sometimes you just are. Was definitely still 25 at 50, 52. And then, an unprepared glimpse of the mirror. Good lord. I need a new mirror.

How the France did that happen?

But that’s just the way things look. Certain outside things. Inside, where it counts, everything is still springy and supple and (probably) pink, and if not exactly 25, close enough.

You can kid yourself like this until one morning the knees order you to stop kidding yourself. It’s not a suggestion. And eventually it’s not ‘one morning,’ it’s all the time (like those crickets in your ears), and you have to find other things to kid yourself about. (There are plenty, alas). And there you are.

Here we are: the first breeze in days, so we drove to the park in Cranford and went for a walk. She forgot her walking stick. But that’s fine. Always happy to lend an arm and fill in. I Am Libby’s Walking Stick. It was noted that my left foot has almost as much of a turn out as hers, and that my right foot also has questionable ideas of its own. We went down along the footpath to the pond. Kids & moms (2 of each) on the footbridge, fishing. Albeit the moms were mostly untangling fishing lines. Large ‘No Fishing on Bridge’ sign for comic relief. There was every intention to circle the pond but the foot path swung away and out toward the road after 50 yards, so we backtracked. Noted slightly more weight on the arm now.

The kids were tearing up stale bread slices and tossing them in the water. ‘Trout Stocked’ declared a rectangle mounted on a red oak. And it was. If anything it was overstocked. And it was ‘Turtle Stocked’ as well, although perhaps not by the New Jersey Division of Fish and Wildlife, who do nothing of value without erecting a stupid sign. Or are we a little cynical? (The names of the trees were displayed on plaques screwed into the bark, white letters on bright green, like Vermont license plates).

The turtles were surprisingly fast in the water and scored the bulk of the (now spongy) stale bread, outmaneuvering the trout. Both of us wishing we could move like these water turtles, now that we were moving like land turtles. Although the land turtles and the water turtles were the same turtles. Just like we are the same turtles we were at 25, only with maybe more brittle shells. Brittle but (unlike certain turtles) free of graffiti. Maybe.

We noticed the animals in waves. First trout, then turtles. Then dragon flies, skimming over the water, hovering over islands of scum. When I was a child I was sure they were hard plastic toys, with tiny metal motors. ‘Hovering’ seemed like something toys could do and animals could not and should not. Did I just say that aloud? She is, was, beside me on the bench, nodding, is why I ask. Anyway the dragon flies were doing their job. The park seemed devoid of mosquitos. No welts on my forearms or her shoulders (the favorite feeding grounds of all blood drinking insects, not just mosquitos). Then wasps. Wasps ignoring us (thank you), examining two shriveled apples by a blueberry bush, and no apple trees anywhere. ‘Probably those kids dropped them,’ she said, nodding with satisfaction as no 25 year-old her ever did. ‘Because they were withered. Bet they put those apples in a bag three days ago and left it on the kitchen counter and got distracted, and nobody bothered with that bag until this morning and they didn’t even look inside.’ A repeat of the satisfied nod. Some sparrows. With all birds smaller than a hawk I default to ‘sparrow’ when unsure of the proper name. Brief discussion of a monster fish in the pond, the size of a beagle. A foot below the trout. Maybe a carp? Maybe a mental disorder, which we share? Can’t get any closer than ‘shared mental disorder,’ not without clothes drying on the same shower curtain rod.

Then we returned to her house and I pruned the butternut tree. There was a meal. Following which I breathed her in & caught a whiff of 25 with my land turtle nose.

Following which I couldn’t get a decent radio signal all the way home, down 78 to exit 15, not any station I wanted anyway. Required a rest stop & parked in the park not far from my house. How many parks in one day? Two!

The concept seems superhuman to me now, though once upon a time I would wind my way from Tompkins Square Park to Washington Square 6 times a week. And give it no thought.

I did not time my arrival at the park correctly, at least in terms of bats.  (In terms of the port-a-potty, my timing was exquisite.) I thought I had two bends in the path at least before it would be dark. But I did not, so I missed the bats. I thought. Hyperventilating pleasantly by the hurricane fence where I usually see the bats, a brace of joggers wished me ‘Good evening, sir’ and how absurdly old must I look if these creaky shitbirds are calling me ‘sir?’

Then a bat, swooping just over the fence! & shortly another, although perhaps it was the same one. I need to sit down and process this. I know there is a bench just across the brook there.

Good to know there are still footbridges ahead. Almost certainly.