Your childhood friend just moved into assisted living. Your neighbor is still driving to Yellowstone every summer, alone, by choice.
Your grandkids don't call to ask how you spent those forty years. They call to ask what you'd do differently.
Your college friend just became a great-grandmother. Your best man just became a widower.
Your accountant just got a pacemaker. Your old boss just got his pilot's license, at 74.
If your parents are still here, you're the one holding their hand in waiting rooms now, the way they once held yours.
Somewhere in your 70s, the questions change. People ask what it was all for.
Someone still has you
There's a photograph you forgot about that somebody else keeps where they can see it.
A family member is going to wish they had told you what you meant. Some of them will get to it.
By now, you're the manual.
And you? What have you prepared?
Your 70s are the years everyone finally listens. Having something ready came earlier.
That question has a related book
