I want to craft a pair of young-old glasses. I will put them on to see the yesterday-tomorrow of everyone I meet. The child crying in the candy aisle with red cheeks in the simultaneous suit and tie, solemnly counting the bills in his wallet when his cell phone chimes—another patient has almost leaped through the broken-glass window of his hospital room. And then he is old and tired, corners of his eyes creased from years of crying-laughing, shoulders round from the weight of a thousand old problems.

The old woman stooped before the magazine rack, young again and grinning as she plucks the latest romance paperback from the shelf. Leafs through it, wrinkles her nose, and hoofs it to her car.