There are feelings that come only with old old age. There is young old age. And young young, like 20 years ago when I called myself a baby elder because I still had too much “look at me” in me. I’m definitely in old age now, which, given ageism, sounds like defeat but is an amazement that I get this part of life, over 80 heading for 90. And in this part, longing came upon me recently as wistful came upon Susie. These are fine feelings, like fine wine or fine cheese, aged just right. They are intimations of the end, or the transition to old old old “soul”.