There’s a comic I read once.  It was an old man with gnarly nose hairs and tired feet and youthful eyes.  He moved slowly but well.  Up and down stairs, no problem.  He got down on the floor at night and stretched and played.  His wife would come in and he’d shout as if she was an intruder.  She was amused by this.  

People would ask the old man what kept his eyes so brilliant.  He’d smile and say, “Age doesn’t dictate happiness.  And curiosity never really kill the cats.  I lost my phone years ago and I have to talk to people with these.”  Then he’d do an exaggerated eye-roll and pretend for a split second to be in some trance, or convulsion.  He’d come out of it laughing and coughing and his eyes were as bright as they ever were.  

It didn’t matter that he was married.  Or that he had been attacked by bees once.  Or on which floor, behind what eroded door he decided to call home.  He’d lived in different parts of the world.  He learned parts of many languages and the tastes of their foods. There were times in his life he had failed horrendously, but he’d had magical moments as well.  More magic moments than he could count, but with the right light, each one of them shown in his eyes.