What then will become of me?

God willing, I will die after I’ve lived 100 years, and have seen my children’s children have children, but I can’t be sure and that terrifies me.

I never thought about dying when I was younger because death was for the sick, elderly, and irresponsible—not the young, healthy, and of good character. Now, I understand that not even prayer can save me from death. One day, I will die. Then what will become of me?

Dreams about a kinder, equitable world used to propel me through all-consuming obligations that came with layered titles and misaligned expectations. I figured, if people could change the world, it would be me. Eventually, I came to understand that evolving the world is beyond my reach. So, these days I most want to see enough tomorrows. Cuddle with my nephew. Laugh with my dad. Hold my neighbor’s mail. Bring a card for the local librarian on their birthday. Little moments, that may ripple if God wills. I dream differently, smaller with more margin for His hand.

Someone once suggested that our ancestor’s wildest dreams were not for us to become capitalistic cogs. Not words I’d choose, but the sentiment has stuck with me. What if their dreams were for fresh foods and new Easter clothes or the ability to read and enjoy birthday cake? That feels trivial to me. Too simple. But what if? What if my ancestors didn’t dream about a large home and a bank account balance that would take generations to spend? What if my elders dreamed about a 2-bedroom rancher, with rose bushes in the backyard and neighbors who become family? Or cushion in the budget for new books and art supplies? Maybe that makes my generation’s dreams of greatness frivolous.

 Accepting the fragility of life, makes the chase, the hustle and constant press for more seem silly. If ultimately all tangibles are loaners destined to slip through my fingers, why break myself for myself and call it legacy?