On this final walkabout, I'm not ashamed to say what friends and even strangers feign: "He grows old."

I do grow old. But I survived when too many left too early.

I feel I am being transformed, albeit, at times its seems an alarming rate that makes each new day a precious gift of gratitude I spin around me.

Despite the stooped, awkward gate and fragile skin and fondness for good friends and children and especially grandchildren I know how important it is to move over and let others have their fill as much or more than have I.

I see the white head of hair and bulging belly and bags under my eyes and note I'm not as sharp as I used to be - that last bit is frustrating - but I see no great loss to the world or even those around me. Secretly I think my former sharpness dulled on grins and nods and silence.

Oddly, I sometimes think the twinkle of an eye is a flashing beam warning those younger to steer clear of complacency and self-importance and most of all, shallow embrace.

I celebrate the release of all this - whatever life is - as this filament of joy. The memories and skills and learning and loving reforms around me. It will hold me and protect me and will ultimately be my shroud.

In a moment of hope, I wonder if only butterflies arrive at the gates of Heaven transporting back, hidden in the dust on their wings, a bit of the Soul, and then, in that special way butterflies fly, flap then glide into eternity.