I wrote a story about a man who believed as my friend did. I tried to imagine what might happen to that man that could cause him to change his mind.

I walk around in my shiny new boots, and I wonder if I shouldn’t be doing something different—even if it’s less ambitious than learning to fly or stockpiling enough food to live on for six months.

We are all making up stories for one another without knowing what the real story is. The story I make up for myself when I am anxious is that I am failing—somehow, somewhere—and no one has told me how or why.

I think I’ve known for most of my life I would never be as consistent or disciplined or sensible as my parents. They were this way when I grew up, and they remain every bit as remarkable now that I am getting old.

We all agreed that it should be more entertaining than it was—at least for us. We suspected other people (younger people) might have more fun reading this than we were.

The cat prints and the poetry and the leaf print in the cement will not last 200 million years. But they will last longer than the poet who wrote the words or the cat who left the prints or the tree that dropped the leaf. And I think that is, somehow, wonderful.

I know for certain that strangers have helped me when I needed help, and kind words have changed my day from terrible to something better—something more hopeful.

I don’t think my mother ever expected to have a red squirrel as a pet. I know she resisted for a long time. But Stubby has changed her mind about at least one red squirrel, and I think that is kind of remarkable.