Some promises are made with magic crayons and zero regard for arthritis.
The other day I woke up feeling every bit of my age—closer to 70 than I was last year, and a few decades past my warranty. Still, I seem younger than some of my peers, mostly because I still pretend I can do things like minor house projects and bending over without making a sound effect. On good days, I can even almost keep up with my two young grandchildren. I say almost generously. Realistically, I’m about three giggles behind at all times.
By day’s end, I felt ancient. And I have my granddaughter to thank for that.
We were wrapping up a whirlwind visit—car seats being buckled, toys being pried from tiny fingers, the usual end-of-day chaos—when she grabbed my arm and said, “Papa, you need to come home with us.”
That one sentence nearly did me in.
Heart? Melted.
Soul? Toast.
I told her I needed to go home and rest. I said, “Papa’s old and tired.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “You’re going to live to be a thousand,” she declared, full of conviction, like Moses with pigtails.
I told her that would make me really old.
Her response? “You already are really old.”
Oof. Five-year-olds: savage truth-tellers in sparkly sneakers.
Still, she meant it with love, and I couldn’t help but smile. Because yes—she’s right. I am already really old. Not just in years, but in miles. This old warhorse has seen a few campaigns—some literal, some domestic—and I’ve got the creaks, cracks, and prescriptions to prove it.
Once I finally escaped her tiny-but-powerful grip and she blew me a final kiss, the van door slid shut, and she was off to a bath and (hopefully) dreams of horsey rides and living room forts.
I headed home and collapsed into my chair—my throne of survival. My bones, like old soldiers, stood down for the evening. I sat there, letting her words echo in my mind.
A thousand years?
Let’s be honest—just thinking about the next 15 is exhausting. I’m 67. I creak like a haunted house in a windstorm. Some mornings I wake up surprised I made it through the night without turning to dust.
But… I want to see my grandkids graduate high school. That’s about fifteen years away. I just need to make it to 82.
No big deal. Just a few gallons of Epsom salt, a couple hundred heating pads, and a weekly oil change.
And maybe, just maybe, that tiny voice calling me to live forever is reason enough to try.
Not because I believe I’m immortal.
Not because I feel young.
But because someone small and full of love thinks I should stick around a while longer.
And if she says I’m going to live forever…
Well then, I guess I better act like it.
At least for another day.
