It starts with the gentle tittering of birds outside my window. The warm, filtered sunlight nudging my cheeks. Then a smile spreads across my face.

I am awake. I am alive.

For most people, these are not mind-blowing revelations. But when you’re eighty-nine years old, each morning your eyes flutter open again is a pleasant surprise.

I don’t say that to be flippant. It’s just that, in the past twenty years, I’ve endured the loss of my husband and most people I’ve known from my generation. I sometimes think of those intrepid adventurers ascending Mount Everest who have to persevere in spite of their fallen companions. If they are still alive, they’re expected to keep climbing. It’s the same for me. I am alive and so it’s my duty to continue living.

My cell phone dings merrily on my nightstand. More a relief than a surprise—it means that Hazel, my one remaining contemporary and my best friend since childhood, is still climbing too.

I fumble for my glasses wedged between the pages of a book. Hazel’s message is to the point, as it is every morning.

Still kicking.

Grinning, I peck my response with my pointer finger.

That makes two of us!

Most days, that’s the extent of our morning check-in. But today my phone dings again.

Hallelujah. (Intended in the secular sense—Hazel’s not a fan of religion.) Looking forward to seeing you on Sunday.

I send back a flurry of hearts and flowers.

Me too!