The optometrist says my eyes are getting better each year. Soon he’ll have to lower my prescription. What’s next? The light step I had at six? All the gray hairs back to brown? Skin taut as a drum? My improved eyes and I walked around town and celebrated. We took in the letters of the marquee, the individual leaves filling out the branches of the sycamore, an early moon. So much goes downhill: our joints wearing out with every mile, the delicate folds of the eardrum exhausted from years of listening. I’m grateful for small victories. The way the heart still beats time in the cathedral of the ribs. And the mind, watching its parade of thoughts enter and leave, begins to see them for what they are: jugglers, fire swallowers, acrobats tossing their batons in the air.