Hardly a morning goes by that I don't stop and realize that each day is, indeed, one step closer to the grave. I try to remember, first thing out of bed, to thank God for another day, because I don't have that many days left, although sometimes it takes two cups of coffee before I get around to thanking Him.
I will be seventy in July. Wow, that sounds so old! It seems even older when someone in his early-to-mid-seventies dies. A local man died yesterday, one who was a member of the church I attend. He was seventy-five. Maybe because he has children the age of mine, or maybe because I saw him and his wife at church on Sundays, but today I am truly reminded of my own mortality.
When Cliff and I make plans to do things, we often talk about the possibility that we might not be around to fulfill those plans. These days when I'm re-subscribing to one of Cliff's antique tractor magazines, I seldom do it for more than two years ahead. It's a roll of the dice whether we'll be around.
Some family members don't like to hear me and my husband talking like this. Well, they can stick their heads in the sand if they want to, but I like facing reality. Cliff and I have no problem at all with these discussions.
Yesterday we were discussing a topic that concerned what might happen to this property in ten years, and I said, "Cliff, do you realize how slim the chances are that we will both still be alive in ten years?"
"You're right," he said. "We're on our way out."
And you, dear readers, may not know it, but so are you. You just don't realize it until the end looms ahead and friends and relatives are dying around you with increasing frequency. When that happens, there is no way of denying it.