Turning sixty seems to demand momentous actions. The sixty-year-old body, however, recoils at the qualifier. A relaxed, grilled dinner in the backyard of a good friend, just a summer Saturday night, serves as a perfect marker.

My candle-blowing, not-to-be-divulged wish is for it all to continue, though all things clicking on as usual seems almost too much to ask for, mortality being what it is. I remember that continuance demands change. Impossible desire, this oxymoron. Careful what you wish for.

History having shown its talons, I am fully aware that on this side of sixty, change can be more frightening than hopeful. But here we are. Sixty. Hoping.