When I told HoneyBunch that I am fast running out of time, he scolded me and called it nonsense. He said if I take care of myself, I should live well into my nineties in good health.
That is exactly my point – the road ahead is much shorter than the road I leave behind.
HoneyBunch didn’t want to hear any more of my morbid thoughts, but then he is five years younger and is still in his fifties. He holds on to his youth as prudishly as a heroine holds on to her virginity in a Jane Austen novel. If I mention his graying hair or his bushy, grandpa eyebrows, he takes offense.
His family putters well into their eighties; mine lives long too, but we sputter and backfire, requiring quite a few expensive tune ups and engine overhauls all the way. Our heredity and genetics differ, and I am glad for his sake. I do not wish him the ailments that come with age for so many of us.
I tried again to share with him my observation that my “someday” list is limited by the number of days left in my life. When he shushed me, I realized he did so because he doesn't want to imagine life without me. He wants me to live in a long string of someday’s with no regrets and no cautions. He sees me with young eyes – for him I am a young woman with a wide, open road ahead for both of us.
He wants us to live like there is no limit to our future, a road full of somedays, and I love him for that, so for our sake, I will try and take good care of myself.