So I’m walking home with heavy grocery bags in each hand, a slack Thwack in his sack on my chest and a shoulder bag draped across him when I’m stopped by a little old lady who notes I am carrying quite a burden, did I need a hand?
I was fine, but thanks.
How old is he? What’s his name?
Oscar, I say.
Oh, she says, I have a friend named Oscar. He’s 94. Do take care of yourself, my dear, she added, smiling, then walked away.
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