It's 6:55 p.m. and the house is closed. The front porch light is already on and she's shut the curtains in the kitchen window. Her arms extend to draw the drapes covering the sliding glass doors. "Can you leave that open, please?" I ask, so that I can see what I'm doing by the wonderful almost-summer light. The days are longer and I like to revel in that fact. She used to be the same way.
And I think to myself, how many years do I have left? How many years do I have to recognize my children and remember that I love strawberries and pineapple? How long will I be able to run, and cook, and write, and read? Will I be 70 and already to the point that she is: turning in for the night early, falling asleep to the chatter of the television, waking up the next day to repeat everything all over again. And when I say repeat, you know exactly what I mean: the constant wandering and spinning of wheels such that each day flows into the next and the next.
How long, I ask? I'm not sure. I think not knowing is what scares me the most. Then again, ignorance might very well be bliss.