At the end of my life I imagine I will jiggle the piggy bank and I hope I have some spare change to claim a few more, certainly not years, but maybe a couple of months, days or even minutes, when the last big sunburn begins to warm my skin. And yet I know that if I am in pain, or because of infirmity, causing pain to my family, I may throw away the precious gift of time and wish for it to be over. I will not be afraid of the endless summer to be a kid all over again.
When I turned sixty, a switch flipped. Like I have often said, on that birthday I realized that the bulk of my life and my ass are behind me. After six decades on earth I began to ponder the amount of time I have left and what I want to do with it. Do I face my fate in a minute - expiration mid-keystroke - or do I have years left, to think about, how many years left?
Life expectancy for women in the US, and taking into account my family history, has me making into my eighties. Not much time, I often think, and yet, a lifetime can be lived in minutes when that’s all you have. As friends (RIP Jose) and family members depart I am left with time, to not lull but live. For me each minute is a gift.
As the countdown to the end of this year approaches I am want to look back and smile, and cry, and ponder the choices I have made over my lifetime which have, for the most part, been good choices. If the bad ones, and especially the bad ones, have brought me to where I am now, then they weren’t that bad, they were meant to be.