Perfect. This is just the way I feel much of the time, now that I've reached the semi-geezerish age of 59.
So photos of me and my granddaughter, Evelyn, that my daughter emailed today were just what I wanted, Father's Day wise.
I sort of thought that Starbucks would offer up a discount on my latte this morning. But no. Disappointed, I cut my tip in half and just clinked a couple of dimes into the jar.
Giving starts at home, they say, and I'm never far from the domicile called Me.
The records show that it's a lot older than I feel it to be. My birth certificate affirms that I was born in 1948. However, I don't feel anywhere near as mature as that.
And my goal is never to grow up. Which Evelyn is going to help me to do, for sure. When she visited us for the first time last March, I hadn't slid down a slide in quite a few years.
Here we are in a more serious moment, pausing on a walk around the lake near our house. I like this photo. There's a yin and yang to it.
Evelyn's youth and softness; my mature (I resist saying elderly) grizzledness.
More and more, I find myself pondering what I'll be when I'm no more. I don't know, naturally. Nobody does. All we can do is make up stories about an afterlife – which, in reality, likely will amount to a big pile of non-existence.
That bothers me, since Woody Allen and I have a similar attitude toward death.
But looking at Evelyn, especially when she's in the arms of my daughter, Celeste, I realize that death can't be cheated – but everyone still wins at the game of life. Even at the inevitable moment when life is lost.
Each of us leaves behind traces of ourselves.
Children and grandchildren are obvious continuances of living. However, all that we do, including the elemental act of simply being, creates ripples that continue to move on the ocean of life after our physical body and mind are inert and motionless.
That's everlasting life. Not the sort religions would have us believe in, but something that I can count on, unlike heaven or salvation.
I hope my last breath and final heart beat mark the beginning of another form of life, rather than nothingness.
Yet if that really is The End of my life's story, I'll turn the last page knowing that others are continuing to enjoy a tale that I helped write.