Often, when a friend asks how I’m doing, I have to stop and run an elaborate, self-orienting calculation: the day, the season, the year, and where am I?
Tuesday, nearly spring, 2024, New York. Then I usually say, I’m pretty good.
There’s an app on my phone that counts the days until something happens or since something happened. As I write this, I’ve been alive for 14,202 days. My oldest nephew is merely 2,301 days old. Other lifespans are being tallied, and approaching events are anticipated: travels, a wedding, and my life expectancy.
The life expectancy countdown is new. A banker trying to get me to save more heartily for retirement began a phone call recently by saying, “It’s 2078 and you’re 95. Here’s how much money you’ll have if—” and immediately, contrary to his intent, I cared nothing about the money.
The above essay is 144 words, a part of a series explained over here.
Oh I drew the death tarot this morning 🃏
I just listened to the replay of your Interview with Eleanor Wachtel on Writers & Company without realizing it was the YOU also here on Substack! I take any pleasant surprise these days as profound and am grateful. Eleanor has sadly retired but she keeps me going with her archive. You shall help fill the emptiness with your 144 words. Greetings from Massachusetts.