Today, Graham, a friend of mine, came over with Isa, his oldest child. She was in a mood and not speaking. Graham left her with me and went to pick up his other two kids from school. For a while, she didn’t talk to me either, but eventually she got over it, and we went to meet Graham and her siblings for dinner. When I bend down to get into my car, my bones usually ache, and I have a habit of saying, “Oh boy, I’m old,” and Isa typically responds, “Why do you always say that?” Usually, I say, “Because it’s true.” But this time, I go off into a little philosophical rant: “Just think, I’m 70, and you’re 10; that’s 60 years between us. Many people live full lives and die within those 60 years. It’s a long time, and therefore I’m really old.” Silence for a moment, and I think my logic has settled the issue. Then Isa says in a small voice, “But we’re still best friends.” No witty retort this time. Just silence, a hug, me on the verge of tears, and then off to dinner with everyone else.