I am ninety-six old. Or at least that’s what they tell me. I suppose the state of my body today would make that easy to believe, but part of me feels like I am still just thirteen.

I was born during the time Hale-Bopp was passing Earth. I don’t know what a comet is, but my family calls me Hale-Bopp.

Most of what I can do at this age is limited to taking place in memories. I guess I am lucky if I can keep busy with a lifetime of memories to look back at with such fondness. Even in my state of decrepitation, I choose to look back on my time fondly. In my younger years, before sounds like economy, war, and unemployment would change what feels like such a short life, I would spend Spring and Summer days playing in my three acre yard with my two older brothers, and two older sisters. Rain or shine, I was outside every day. Butterflies, grasshoppers, fresh cut grass and falling leaves were my favorite. I have seen my parents every day even at this age.

I liked to run all the way to the tree line in the back yard as fast as I could. I was always faster than everyone in my family. I like to think even now I could beat them to that tree line, but they don’t seem to want to play any more. Sometimes I still want to run.

I had amber colored hair that would glow in the Summer sun. My family would rub their hands through it and make it as messy as they could and I wouldn’t even mind. It made them smile and laugh and that made me happy. My hair doesn’t glow any more.

At night I dream of sprinting through the grass and find myself awoken by my own arms and legs kicking in place. The memories feel closer than they feel far away, and maybe they are. They tell me I am sick.

I don’t make my family smile the way I used to. I don’t see any of them laugh the way they used to. When it was cold and we had a tree indoors, an abundance of boxes would warp around the tree, but the last time I saw a tree indoors, it felt sparse. My family still awaited the ritualistic eating of sweet smelling cinnamon rolls. It is September so I will surely smell it again soon. I am tired.

My family moves free of pain, or at least it seems that way. Most days I feel like I am in the way. I move from one place to the next slower than they do, and they always seem like they are in a hurry to get where they are going. I keep to myself. I have a place in the house I call my own. It’s where I spend most of my time. I can see everyone from here. It is right at the end of our hallway between the living room and the kitchen. From here, I can see the back door, straight ahead through the kitchen, and I can see the front door to my right, which is at the South end of the living room so I can see everyone most of the time. The best part about my place is that no matter where my family is headed in the house, they have to pass by me from here. I am ignored.

The hands that used to rub the hair on my head are now carrying boxes full of pieces of the house that made up our home. They are different than the boxes I am used to. They move things throughout the house with little caution, and I feel the the wisp of air on my nose as they pass by. I am still here.

I don’t need toys at my age, so they throw mine in the box they drag to the end of the driveway. That is okay because my favorite toy was a ball my brothers would throw back and forth to one another in the back yard. I didn’t play with the ball the same way as they did, but after awhile they let me play with it anyway. I wonder if they’ll let me play with them again. I am still here.

I’d like to be outside again, but the back door opens to a yard I do not recognize. Unemployment, economy, war. I don’t know what these things mean, but I heard them often and I know they are in part the reason the things that used to be my favorite things are now unrecognizable.

There are less boxes in the house now, and I see my family talking, though not to me. They carry out beds, piles of clothes and food from the cupboard. I sit in my place and wonder if I’ll be placed in a box and carried to the place the other parts of the house are going. There are no more boxes.

The house is empty. The kitchen cabinets still affixed to the walls but the doors hang open. The room I once observed from my special spot is now barren. The floor where furniture once sat is flattened and looks healthy in contrast to the debilitated house that encompasses it. It is quiet and the house is cold. I am still here.

My spot feels larger than it used to. I am now allowed to see parts of the house I wasn’t allowed to see before. My body aches as I pace throughout my ever-growing place, until I find myself back at the end of the hall to where I am comfortable. I wait at the end of the hall, where the back door is straight ahead in the back of the kitchen and the front door is to my right but there is nothing left in the house and I am sure that because of this when my family returns they will surely notice me, and I will make them smile once again.

I am still here.