I have a cold and our building fire alarm woke me just after 4am this morning. I would have liked sleeping a bit longer. But since I was up and a neighbor sent me a link to his father’s obituary, I looked up my father’s obituary and found my grandfather’s obit and naturalization paper (I was 8 when he died, which explains why I have so few memories of him) and my great grandmother’s obit from 1918 in the Daily Astorian. He was 75; she was 60. My other great grandmother, Rosetha [Stiles] Pride was 90 when she died. The last time I tried searching for family, I didn’t get far. Now, if I cared to, it seems I could easily trace my entire family. Instead, I’m looking forward.

It’s hard to write about my recent decision without being depressing or sounding depressed. I’m coming to terms. A much more talented friend declared they were done writing, but they still write. A longtime friend sold their loom. Other friends purchased century plots. Someone moved into a retirement home that also offers assisted living. Planning ahead. My husband and I bought our little condo in a Portland neighborhood where we can walk everywhere, a place with view of sky, an elevator building with no requirement to climb stairs, a place where grocery stores are walking-distance and groceries can be delivered, where local restaurants are across the street and around the corner, and we talk to people in the building. Life goes on; sometimes differently. This is our next life.