End Days
I’m having post-birthday thoughts. By most metrics, I’ve had a long life. I’m five years past the lifespan of the average US male, and one year away from how long most US women live. Mostly I think it’s luck and genetics. In fact, it’s probably all luck and genetics. I didn’t pick my parents, and I can recall two instances where death nearly came knocking but turned away. Both involved cars, and both were in my relative youth.
It probably helps as well that I’m slightly risk averse. I mostly remember all of the 60s, I never smoked, and I didn’t have my first drink until I was nearly 20. I want to be clear, however, these are no claims to sainthood. I’ve indulged in a few risky behaviors. Ethanol, for one, can make me dance, make me think I’m funny, and I like it with honey. And I have a taste for a good red wine.
In the end, I suppose that mostly what I feel is gratitude. I’ve enjoyed my life, but I know that better, more talented people than I have gone before me, people who deserved, more than I perhaps, the same long life. So, it feels incumbent on me, out of respect for their memory, to try and make my final days memorable, in a peaceful way. To fall slowly to earth, as though I were a feather, with a heartfelt song in my heart, for all that I have seen and all that I have lived. I’ve had magic, and I’m sure there’s magic still to come.