One fine day we will all grow old. For some, that old, comes sooner rather than later - stolen in an instant like the sweetness from an empty cookie car. For others, their skin will have wrinkled with the age of wisdom and anger. Fallen from its tight placement years ago, to a drooping painting of skin and lackless muscle. One fine day we will all grow old. In that day, I hope I will have caused laughter in the lives of many, tears in the eyes of few and a shadow that lasts years past my day. I want my parents to be proud of who they've raised; to take the lessons they've given me and instill them in my own life, my own children. I want to have made a name for myself somewhere where it means something. A place like the house I build from wood, with shutters of security and a design of balance. It will be a present to my children - a scrapbook to their souls. Their stories will be written in the cracks of the floor panes. Secrets will have swept sweetly out the cracks in the windows. Family dinners will be the place of fights, but also the place of forgiveness.

One fine day we will all grow old. But one fine day I'll be ready.