My grandmother turned 101 this week. Still sharp, still kind, still driving herself to McDonald’s for her daily sandwich and coffee. She laughs that she doesn’t know why she’s still here, as if the universe misplaced her. Sitting with her, I wonder: what do we celebrate in longevity? The number, the endurance, or the quiet miracle of still being here?
The tornado missed us by less than a block. The damage, the chaos, the grief—it was all just down the street. We were spared. And somehow, that made it harder to hold. I spent the next morning walking the neighborhood, trying to make sense of what it means to survive.