‘You will die today’, greets me in the morning, some times.
I used to quake, be rattled, and scrunch up under the bed covers.
Now I get up, accept today is the day, shower, flush, brush, dress, collar Kaia
and pull the door closed behind us. I help her up the portable ramp, into the back, get into the front, seatbelt up and start the ignition. We are heading to Buck Lake for a somewhat belabored walk around the ball field, down to the lake and back to the car. Kaia will be 13 shortly and her closing days are clearly imminent.
Isn’t it odd that we choose one day to remember and another fades as quickly as it passes? Our dogs, cats and other family critters wake up to a new day, each and every day. Every sniff Kaia takes is fresh and engaging. Here we are teaching our teachers.
Oops, got side-tracked!  Where were we? Oh yes, driving to Buck Lake. This is where the angst about dying kicks in these days, when I’m behind the wheel. Generally, it’s not longer than a few minutes before I’m where I be, and death is a word like any other.