February's old age

February, oh, February. She's grown so big now. Last time I saw her, she was still a young girl, and now I really should start referring to her as a woman. Sometimes, though, I think that we'll turn 88 years old, and I will still talk about her as if she tied her hair in braids and outfitted herself in the old brown-wool school uniform with white collar and sleeves starched weekly. My grandmother told me once that after 80 people started growing baby teeth and hair again, so I guess the braid thing is not completely out of the question. It is strangely simple to imagine February as an old girl, pudgy and wrinkly, with a bunch of tiny white braids sticking out in all directions. She would go everywhere with a heavy walking stick and use its handle indiscriminately to grab onto things and trip other girls and boys up for bad behavior or personal amusement. She would develop this really nasty habit of taking her dentures out for airings in restaurants and on boats, then accidentally misplacing them and demanding help loudly and unintelligibly. The more vividly I picture her old age, the sadder it is to think that she is slated to die in just 18 more days. She won't live past her 29th birthday.