When he was a little boy, about 6 or 7 years old, my extremely handsome son George, went through a phase. He became very concerned about the fact that one day I would die. I have no idea how the idea got into his little head. It was not a subject we had ever discussed as far as I can recall.
He told me that he was not going to let God take me to heaven. He was going to hold onto my hand really tight and not let go.
Eventually to calm him down I told him I was going to live until I reached 120 years old at least. This, I think gave him a bit of comfort. And me also if I'm truthful. I thought that the idea was not too far fetched. I think I began to believe it in some strange way.
I don't make promises to my extremely handsome son George unless I intend to keep them. Sadly however I am going to have to break this one.
Today I feel old. I am old. In a few months I shall be 65. Only five years short of the allotted three score years and ten. That is old. My aching body often reminds me of this.
120 years! What a fool I was to make that promise. But the intention was truly there.
Sorry about that son. I love you very much indeed.