Future caste 2069

109. One hundred and nine years old. You made it.

Now you are crowned and get a booth in the library, the children get in a big circle and fidget until you start to speak and then they have to shush, they pull their feet and shoes up close to their bodies and their eyes get big or glaze over as you tell them about Richard Nixon and how he lied, or how there was a time during which people did not carry tiny wOrkpads with them everywhere they went, distributing their, and your, global position and body temperature.

You are old. This means you are privileged. You get your name etched on the sidewalk on a famous boulevard in California. A blimp flies around, for just one day, flashing your name and birthdate along it's swollen side. You are in line for a governership now. You are guaranteed a place. Your time was worth it. You were not lost in impulsive reaction. You have stories to tell. You will tell them. Again and again. The children must stay and listen, until you are finished. Until you fall asleep, your face in your own lap, finger atwitch, mouth breathing.