I look back at my words written on paper, committed in ink and pulp, extending beyond me, a limb that reaches through time into another place. The hand that wrote them was steady and strong, unlike my own now. That’s why I only type these days. My hand is too weak too write legibly. My words and I, we have our own paths to follow. My days are few in number and there will come a day when even typing is too painful, when the words will mock me, remind me of a time when they and I were strong. My children, my words, may your days be plenty and full. Go strong into that place where I can’t follow.