Spent most of the morning lying in bed thinking it was Sunday. No idea how that cropped up. I was also thinking about the virtual necropolis in my head for all the dead I know. That thought first came to me a day or two ago when a friend said, “I feel as those my interior life is peopled with many people I have loved and lost—who are unknown to others.” That rang a loud bell with me, as I realized how true it was.

And normal. I’m old. I’ve known lots of people. Lots of them are dead. Most of them I loved. Some were just acquaintances. Regardless. They’re now all memories. They crowd around in my brain. My wife. My dad. My mother. My brother. Aunts. Uncles. Friends. Acquaintances. Celebrities.  You name a category. There’s a dead person in it I knew. I once interviewed Mickey Rooney. Dead. Same with John Henry Faulk. Dead.

The danger, I suppose, is to start thinking you’re one of them and spending so much time visiting you forget to live. It’s certainly easier hanging out with them. A lot less drama. My go to, however, is my dad. He remembered all of his dead relatives. But at 81 he married his third wife, having outlived two. His wife was in her 90s. They wanted five years they got nearly four. His first wife was my mom. His second, a woman I’d rather forget. The third was a woman I loved, too. He helped me see the future is always there even if its short. So, you might as well try to be happy. He largely succeeded, too. Way to go, dad.

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver's Tale