I've never been very good with them, but what is it about 63? I know that that's how far three of the men in my family--grandfather father, and brother--and an ex-boyfriend made it.
My son was 4 when my father died;
I was 36.
When my brother died, I was 66.
More optimistic numbers:
My mom made it to 90 this year. And
if I make it until tomorrow, I will be 68, even though, for some reason, I always feel like 16. But that can't be true, since this was the year of my 50th high school reunion.
What's more, I have a beautiful granddaughter, now 20 months old, and her soon-to-be-born sister is up to about 32 weeks.
Math anxiety, moi?
Oui, si, yes, I confess.
But there's another way of looking at it, which my artist friend expresses in her wispily elegant calligraphy on the cards and beautiful paintings she makes:
"Teach us to number our days,
That we may get us
A heart of wisdom."
Impatient kid in car to father at the wheel: "Daddy, Daddy, when will we get there?"
How long until I get that heart of wisdom?
I'm working on it.
And it will take as long as it takes.