Recently, my beautiful daughter turned ten. Like all children that age, she had a wonderful party attended by family and friends, ate lots of cake, ripped open carefully wrapped presents without a care in the world, and generally had the carefree party that children of that age have. Yet it reminded me of my own mortality.Danny:
I had kids later in life. Today I'm 53, my daughter is ten, and my son turned twelve in May. My wife is 40. Because I'm an older dad and, I guess, an older husband, I find myself thinking more about the future than perhaps I should.Danny:
How I'll technically be a pensioner when my kids are at University. How I'll be in my fifties at my kids school sports days and probably let them down in the parent/children events where there's any kind of competitive edge needed. How I may die leaving them as young adults without ever having the chance to impart any learning I've accrued over the years of my own life that may set them in good stead for the years ahead of them.Danny:
But you know what? I can't be sad. To be sad is to avoid the experiences and the memories I've already had with them and those yet to come. To be sad is to believe that all their alive moments will stop if I can no longer share them. To be sad is to feel alone.Danny:
And I can never be alone because even now I can see the faces of my wife and my kids, and that makes me smile. And if I can see them now, in my conscious, perhaps I can see them in my unconscious too.Danny:
Yesterday mortality may have caught up with me. Today I welcomed it as a future friend who will help me remember the present.