|It was nice to be remembered|
with a cake at the office on my
A 59-year-old friend done in by a brain tumor was buried
last week on my 61st
That, in a nutshell, is why I am trying like heck not to complain
about getting older and not to harp on my failing hearing, worsening eyesight,
slowing metabolism and the evils of gravity.
It’s why I restocked the bird feeder and took a few moments this morning to
enjoy the cardinal that stopped by. It’s why, tired as I was the other night, rather than make
a bee-line from work to car, I paused to notice the sliver of a
moon flanked by a bright Venus. It’s why I called my father, just to hear his
voice, and my sons, to hear their voice messages.
|Watching birds at the|
feeder is a simple pleasure.
I won’t lie, it’s a shock to be in my 60s. Where do the
Last weekend I was telling 93-year-old Aunt Madelyn that I never
thought I’d someday say, “Oh, to be 50!” “Really?”
she replied without missing a beat. “How about ‘Oh, to be 80!’”
My father says, when it’s your time, it’s you’re time. Yet
we of a certain age, and those much younger, have lost beloved relatives and
friends “before their time” – stolen from us much too soon. I am so sad for my friend's wife and children, his mother and his siblings.
Weird as it feels to say I'm 61, I know I am lucky to have celebrated another birthday, and I hope to recognize each day for what it is: a gift.