He would have been 96. but he’d never have lived that long. neither would his son who died a few weeks after Jack, though I didn’t learn that for a while. I don’t know where his daughter is. I’ve lost her in the mists of e-where.

Isn’i it weird how some families disintegrate and others go on? There’s only one left that I know of, of my father’s family—a niece, the daughter of one of his brothers. She kept in touch for a while, but I’ve lost her. My mother’s family, on the other hand, is flourishing, with lots of sons and daughters—cousins for my children. Their ICELANDIC DNA carries on. Even with some knowledge of stats and DNA we just have to wait and see.

Lord, we know what we are but not what we may be. (Ophelia in Hamlet)

That’s enough to think about for today. I just wrote a memoriam for the last surviving friend of our youthful beginnings. Now I’m it. I’ve told you already, I have already lived past my wear date.

We still don’t know what’s to become of us. Well, we do, but not when or how. It will be a surprise.