A number of years ago, I wrote a play. It was not particularly good, on a number of levels, and no one except my husband and one other close friend have ever laid eyes on it. But I’ve always kind of liked this brief passage towards the end—

It’s a fascinating myth, definitely. But if you ask me, the Greeks got it wrong.  Narcissus wasn’t a young man. No, Narcissus was, in fact, quite advanced in years.  And when he stooped down to the surface of the water to take a drink, his back curved with age, his knees painfully stiff, he saw his face not as it was in that moment, but as it had been in his youth, now long past. Enchanted by its beauty, yet pained by the memory of its loss, he felt drawn to it, compelled by a spirit from a hitherto unknown well to reach out a hand and grasp it, to capture it once more. And in so reaching, without a watchful companion to impede him in his folly, he met the image and joined it beneath the water.