"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
I studied this poem in school. They were only words, then. I was a child. What did I know of getting older? It means something else entirely to me now. I had no clue that life itself, stretching out like an indolent teenager ahead of me, would suddenly begin to gallop. It is sobering to realize that my 93-year-old aunt was only four years older than the age I am now, when I came to New York to attend college. And it feels as if I came to New York only yesterday. Oh, it is all a bad cliche.