I started Chapman University’s MFA program at the age of sixty-two. On the first day, I loaded my computer, books, notebook, purse and bulky sweater into a carry-on roller bag and made my way to class. Students forty years younger than I with thirty-pound backpacks bounded up an expansive staircase while I waited for the elevator. I felt conspicuous with my wheels. Of course, I arrived early. I was worried about finding my classroom. Worried I wouldn’t fit in. Worried I might