Standing in the kitchen with a calculator, my daughter informs me I am 15,779 days old. I’ll take her word for it.
My heart has dutifully pumped for 15,779 days. My lungs have breathed. Blood courses through my veins. I’ve rarely been physically hungry (unless self-inflicted). My bones and muscles have held up my body. I walk. I smile. I cry.
15,779 days and my skin has miraculously healed every little cut, every big incision.
Babies grew in me.
I’ve been able to feed them every single day.
I’ve woken up every day.
I’ve given love and received love.
I’ve been in pain.
I’ve caused pain.
I’ve sung a solo.
I’ve written a book.
I’ve ridden a dolphin.
I’ve looked into the most beautiful eyes in the world.
I’ve bathed in bliss.
I’ve steeped in angst.
I’ve touched the fur of a bat (softest thing I ever felt, second only to a giraffe’s lips, and my babies’ bottoms).
I’ve water skied, gotten up first try, and never water skied again in thirty years.
So many lifetimes packed into 15,779 days.
15,779 days, and still so much to do.
So much more to grow.
So much more to learn.
So much more to love.