It is almost noon on a quiet rainy Saturday, three days before it will have been half a century since my birth, and as I take the puppy out to pee for the tenth time today, I find myself thinking about the world half a century ago, and my parents, half a century ago, and my children, half a century from now. In my head, I jump back and forth between the three times - what did my parents expect for me? From me? Have I done anything to make a difference? In another fifty years, will I be remembered? For what? 

I think a lot about my life and what it means or doesn't mean. I think a lot about when I might die, and how if I die now it will no longer be a tragedy in the way it would have been if I had died 40 years ago (she wasn’t even 10 years old!), or 20 years ago (she graduated from law school 2 years before; so much was still ahead of her), or maybe even 10 years ago (she leaves behind a husband and two young daughters, ages 6 and 2). I think, often, about how long it took me to begin this teaching career that seems to suit me, and how I feel robbed of this new chance, with my second year of teaching cut short by the coronavirus, and this third year turning me into an "essential worker" who isn't supposed to mind going back to school. After all, I have known that there was a chance I would die defending my students against a school shooter, so how is this different? Except of course it is.