Today I am 56.
That probably seems old, if you’re forty. Really old, if you’re twenty. Ancient, if you’re ten. Young, if you’re seventy. A mere kid, if you’re ninety.
Hitler killed himself at 56.
Lincoln was assassinated at 56.
Steve Jobs died at 56.
Beethoven too.
They’d all done more than me by now. But that’s okay.
When I was five, my grandfather turned 56. To me, he seemed oldish, grandfatherly, white-haired, bearded, but then he went on and on living for another forty-two years.
56 feels more or less the right age for me to me. I’ve done a bunch of stuff in these years. Got scars, wrinkles. Lost some hairs, no teeth. Lived. But I’m not done yet. Not by a long stretch.
Happy 56th to me. I’ve had three slices of birthday cake already today. I plan to have some more.