Jan Wilberg, Michigan, 1950

When our granddaughter comes for the weekend on Friday night, she asks what we’re going to do on the first tomollow (Saturday) and on the second tomollow (Sunday) and then the semi-dreaded but kind of nice third tomollow (School, also known as Monday).  I can tell she likes the prospect of three tomollows, each one with special things that we could do.

Time. The loveliness of Friday night.  The beauty of tomollows.

This weekend, she didn’t come on Friday night or Saturday night, instead coming late this afternoon.  While she was putting her puzzle together, she remarked that she had missed swimming, so could we go tomollow? “No, honey, tomorrow’s school,” I told her.  You mean tomollow’s not the first tomollow?  “No, sweetie, it’s not.”

So it really hit me – this being my birthday week and all — that from a lifespan point of view, I am probably staring the third tomollow in the face.  And for those of you who are younger than me (and that seems to be about 90% of the people I know), this is a very weird feeling.

I haven’t felt like that kid sitting in the inner tube for a long time.  She’s not even thinking about tomollows.  What an incredible, lovely thing to have – mindlessness about how much time you’ll be alive.

To me, time has become a finite thing.

It’s not like I’ve got a terminal illness but unless I move to Russia and start eating yogurt all day long, I’m not going to be one of those people who live to be 114.

The meter is definitely running and I need to get used to it.