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The old well behind the abandoned train depot was a gathering place for children; I sat and watched them, weekday evenings and weekend mornings, envying their ease of company. Their secret languages were a marvel to me, and I strained to hear as they screeched around mouthfuls of stolen candies, crouched over the gaping chasm into which they hurled the wrappers, sweaters hanging off their small backs like the shrouds of crows. Every so often, one or another would glance suspiciously over a thin shoulder, marking me as an unwelcome intruder, and the lively chatter would reduce to the comforting hum of inside voices used in the open air. The weight of my age and rusty joints isolates me from their games; and - children being the insensitive creatures they are - they never sensed my desire to join them, my urgency to escape into playful reminisence. But their laughter was a comfort as it broke in the thin winter air, shrill on my unaccustomed ears. Hours passed as I shivered from cold and the effort of recollection, watching for some echo of movement to remind me of the way I tried to smile over skinned knees. Supressing the urge to hover maternally over the little girl who finally did give me this gift, I clutch my bag of marbles protectively within my pockets, trudging slowly away from the old well behind the train depot, fading back into the obscurity of the world of the nearly dead.