I remember once, when I was a little kid, I was sitting next to her on the couch. I don't remember if it was her foot or her hand, but I noticed that one of her extremities looked different from mine. It had wrinkles and calluses. I think it was probably her foot; her hands were never that callused. I didn't know what wrinkles or calluses were, or why they were there, so I asked her. She said it was because she was getting old, or something like that. I was so upset. I didn't want her to be old. I wanted her to be forever.
She wasn't old, of course. She was probably in her mid forties at the time. She didn't get to be old, because of some shitty disease. She didn't get the wrinkles she should have had with all that wisdom she'd acquired. She didn't even get the gravitas of gray hair, thanks to some quirk of genetics. Dark, shiny brown until the day she died.
Now I want her to be old. That's different. But I still want her to be forever.