On old people the pad of thickened flesh, divvied up into hexagons by criss-crossed creases, hangs in the softer folds of the back of the arm. It is powdered white with dry skin. At one point I was terrified of allowing that to happen to me. Now I don't think about my elbows at all: what happened to my parents is happening to me, my attention has lapsed, the upholsterers are sneaking up on me.