When I went out running I saw a short, thin, old man with a hat and cane sitting on the edge of a wall, waiting for the bus. I didn’t pay any attention to him, but when I came back from my seven-mile run, the same old man was still waiting there. He said to me, “How I wish I could get back my youth.”
I said, “I too miss my youth.”
“How old are you?” asked the man.
“Forty-eight,” I answered.
“I am seventy-three,” said the man.
I stayed there with him for two or three minutes and then I finished my run.
RB 67. 3 September 1979↩