Dear Wigleaf,

I haven't sent or received an actual postcard in years. I only have a letter that my grandfather sent to his parents when he was stationed in the Philippines, back in WW2.

My grandfather lived to ninety-nine and a half—he died exactly six months shy of his hundredth birthday. As he got older, he was always saying he wanted to live to be a hundred. By the end, he couldn't really think too well, so maybe he really did believe he'd made it to a hundred. I like to think he thought he made it.

What's the difference, anyway? Does it matter if you actually live to a hundred versus just having the satisfaction of believing you did? It's not like we were all standing around saying "Goddammit Grandpa Ken, if only you'd lived to a hundred like you were always going on about."

The other day my mother and I were talking about death, and my father, overhearing, laughed and said, "What is this, something out of Dostoevsky? Lighten up a little!"

I tried to decide whether or not I should lighten up. In the end I decided only that I'm going to read more Dostoevsky as the leaves continue to fall from the trees.

Love,
Amy