What does it feel like to be old? 

  I don't mean your "I feel like I'm getting old," which seems to become an average pet phrase. I mean seriously, old. And let me tell you, it feels like a cat living in a dog's body, and vice versa. Recently I've been talking to myself, like now, and by recently I mean the last 5, 10, or 15 years. I turned 80 this year, or is it last year? Doesn't really matter. Outside it's dark, with lights flashing by. Anyway, I was talking about cats and dogs, and how they seem so different but actually are different, no? And being old is like being put in the wrong container. My dog soul barks in complaint of this useless cat body: "Woof!" You hear that? This thing is very loud, has no respect for my ears, like how my son is always yelling at me because I pretend not to hear him. This thing is what they call a subway. Something like an underground bus, and it drives in tunnels! Can you imagine? I mean I know you probably take this thing every day, but can you imagine? They move in the soil like earthworms, make perfect sense—

  As I was saying, this doesn't make any sense, this underground thing. This is my first trip on it, and probably the last. And why am I even here? I am here for an adventure! This is the big plan between me and my grandson, who is 9, or is he already 10? He is my ally, my sweetest thing, my life guide. He hates me because I get to watch TV while eating dinner, and can pull my dentures out and make that face which terrifies him. He is a little idiot, but he is my ally, my life guide, my sweetest—So we have this big plan, I will use his card to take the subway alone, just for one stop, and then ride home, and, and? The point is I've never taken this thing before, is not trusted to do it by myself, but I can, and will, prove that I am capable—and this could also be a rehearsal for death, no? I mean look at this thing, it is underground, sealed like a coffin, and people in here look as dead as they will be one day, dressed nicely, makeup, perfect—

  A pen just rolled beside my feet. I look around, and a girl sitting across me smiles shyly at me. A nice girl with short hair, and hey! We have the same haircut! I point to my hair and grins, I'm thinking about a wink but doesn't trust my eyes. She doesn't get it, is confused, and moves cautiously towards me, one hand holding onto the handrail and picking up her pen. She sits back and writes something on her notebook, and—this thing is just too loud, it is squeaking, but people are calm, so I guess it's normal. I should act normal.

  You know how long does it take to travel between two stops? It feels like we've been going for a while now. Outside it's dark, with lights flashing by. I stretch my legs out in front of me. The girl sitting across is still writing. I envy her. I cannot write. I'm from that generation where words mean money. I know how to write my name. I know characters like "big" and "small," and I know numbers! Each and everyone of them. That's it, numbers are also my ally, I can tell you right now that it's 1:11, it's one in the afternoon, my phone says so. Heh heh! I have a phone. Not your type of phone though, my phone is what a phone is for, and I write down phone numbers in a small notebook, one not unlike the girl's. People love that, saying it's nostalgic, and I look smart with a notebook and a pen in my chest pocket—I look down, they are not there, my pen and my notebook.

  The man beside me is snoring, his head tilting precariously towards me. I do not want to offer my shoulder to him, and I can already see the look of disgust he will give me when he wakes up, startled. But he might actually be nice, he might say something like, "you remind me of my mother..." and give me a boyish smile, gingerly taking my hand in his own rough hands, and softly squeezing it, his fingers trembling slightly...

  Outside it's dark, with lights flashing by. You know why I choose this hour to take the subway? It's because this splendid idea, this plan, occurred to me last night at 1. I have trouble sleeping recently, and by recently I mean the last 5, 10 or 15 years. I don't do much every day. I shuffle from the bedroom to living room and the living room to bedroom. Most of the time, I exist in a sort of limbo, either trying to fall asleep or attempting to stay awake, with equally disappointing results. So I give up on making an effort. 

  The man beside me is snoring, his head tilting precariously towards me, I do not want to offer my shoulder to him. But you see, I can see my big ghostly head traveling through the darkness outside the window across me, it's kind of funny. Something rolls beside my feet, I look around, and a girl sitting across me smiles shyly at me, a nice girl with short hair, and hey! we have the same haircut! I point to my hair and grins, I'm thinking about a wink but doesn't trust my eyes. She doesn't get it, is confused, and moves cautiously towards me, one hand holding onto the handrail and picking up her pen. She sits back and writes something on her notebook. I'd really like to talk to her, but I do not speak Cantonese, Mandarin, or English. I only speak my regional dialect, and I cannot write, but I know numbers! Each and every one of them! And I can tell you right now that it's 1:11. 

  But I was saying I want to talk to that girl, I want to ask what she is writing about. Is she jotting down numbers down like I do? Phone numbers that represent people connected to me, people I desperately cling to. No, I'm not desperate, but you have to understand that once you can't walk much, it's all up to others for meetings. I'm a scenic spot people drive by. They say hi, they wave at me, then it's months and years without seeing them. Coffins should operate like this underground thing, with someone driving the dead around, and people need to chase it to visit the dead. Imagine the sight. I mean I know you probably take this thing every day, but can you imagine? The dead should be on the move, wriggling around underground like earthworms, and I'd like to see my family running after me, out of breath, like they are trying to catch a bus, and my grandson yelling in frustration, "where are you going grandma?" 

  So I was talking about cats and dogs, and how they seem so different but are actually different, no? My grandson has been pestering his parents to get him a dog, but you know what it's like when kids are trying to get a pet, how they promise they will take care of them but never—This thing really is very loud, has no respect for my ears, like how my son is always yelling at me because I pretend not to hear him. Something rolls beside my feet, I squint hard to to get a better look. Hey! It's my pen, I pick it up and put it back in my chest pocket beside my notebook, which for some reason is not there, but it doesn't matter. I look up, and a girl sitting across me is staring at me, her mouth agape and her eyes wide open, and hey! we have the same haircut! I point to my hair and grins, I'm thinking about a wink but doesn't trust my eyes. She doesn't get it, is confused, and moves cautiously towards me, one hand holding onto the handrail—

  Did she capture her? Did she capture her? That old lady is no longer there, now she can only see her own ghostly big head traveling through the darkness. She holds the pen in mid-air, biting its end. What does it feel like to be old anyways? I don't mean your "I feel like I'm getting old," which seems to become an average pet phrase. I mean seriously, old. But this is not enough, the old lady is not enough, she is not enough, she—this thing really is very loud, has no respect for my ears, like how my son is always yelling at me because I pretend not to hear him. This is my first trip on it, this thing they call subway, and probably the last, and why am I even here? I—