Today, May 18, is my 69^th birthday. As of now, I start my 70^th year here on Earth. It’s strange to get that old; I’m older than more than 88 percent of the people in the country. I don’t feel particularly old in my head, but my body begs to differ. I imagine most people who see me would think that I am at least 69 years old. Maybe even older.

When I think about my past, it seems like it happened to a different person in a different world, like a book I read once. There is almost nothing physical left from my past. Not the house where I grew up. Not my grandparents’ house where we had big family gatherings. Not one of my own family, and none of my father’s family.

Someone has cut down the trees, flattened the hills, and channelized the creeks.

I don’t have much time left to achieve any dreams left unrealized. Many of them are beyond my reach.

I might as well have imagined it all.

I find myself in a new world, and not a brave one. It’s at times like these that I have less regret for not having had children. I would feel guilty to leave this world to them. I worry enough about my nephews. What will things be like for them when they reach my age? Better? I would like to believe it, but I’m finding that harder and harder.

I have enough to do here and now to occupy my mind, but sometimes I envy the dogs; they don’t have worry about finding something to occupy their minds. A peanut-butter-filled rubber bong takes care of that.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, I was a runner, and so was my brother. Henry was faster than me for most, if not all of his life. In age at least, I’m catching up to him. He died at 70 in April of last year. If I make it through one year and eight months, I’ll pass him.