Two of you at seventy

There are two of you at seventy. One sits in a chair by the window, and the walk to the mailbox takes planning. The other is out on a path with a grandkid, a niece, or a friend's big dumb dog, keeping up just fine. Neither is a scare story. Both are reachable from right here.

The fork between them isn't some big decision you'll see coming. It's this week. The cigarette won't ask for your seventies. It asks for this week, every week, and hopes you skip the math. A week without it doesn't feel like a vote while you're inside it. The chair and the path both get built out of weeks nobody remembers.

Fear won't get you there. It wears off by lunch. Choose the path on purpose, while choosing is cheap. God gives the years, and He's generous with them. Nobody gets to spend the same one twice. And this week is still wide open. You get to spend it on the path.

Do one thing today for the one on the path. Take the stairs instead of the elevator. Walk around the block after dinner. It'll feel too small to count. That's the size paths get built in. Then forget about seventy and go live your life. The one out on that path is going to thank you for this week.