When I celebrate my 100th birthday, I’ll still crave the taste of a sweet southern peach—golden ripe.
I’ll never close my shutters to an orange sunset as it dips beneath the blues and pinks on the horizon. I’ll always cheer for the Pirates, the Pens, and the Steelers.
No matter the number of notches that keep track of my years, I’ll never turn down a gift of homegrown tomatoes. I’ll never pass up a chance to sit on a porch and linger in the caress of a warm summer breeze.
I’ll always look forward to watching a full moon rising up and into a starlit sky.
At 100, I hope I’ll swing a tennis racquet, care who wins in college football, and find lots to laugh about. I don’t want to grow up to be a cranky centenarian.
When I reach the three-digit mark, I’ll bask in the aroma of a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll never tire of hearing the tenor of my children’s voices.
I’ll always fill pitchers with fresh cut sunflowers or hydrangeas or Gerber daisies or black-eyed Susans.
I’ll never volunteer to paint—anything. I’ll never say, “No” to one, two or five scoops of coconut ice cream, especially if it’s topped with hot fudge.
I’ll always feel God’s glory when I gaze on a mountain bursting in the red, orange and yellow of autumn’s splendor.
At 100, I hope I’ll cast my vote at the polls, catch the ocean’s waves as they lap over my toes, and give sound advice. I don’t want anyone to describe me as “the batty centenarian who leads people in the wrong direction.”
When I become the most senior of senior citizens, I won’t be any better at picking out a watermelon than I am now. I’ll never wear slippery socks on hardwood floors.
I’ll always play to win no matter the game.
I’ll never root against the Mountaineers. I’ll never, as in ever, eat the hottest of red hot chili peppers.
I’ll always savor a tall glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade.
At 100, I hope to continue to go puddle-jumping, make killer apple pie, and dance with my son to “Brown-eyed Girl.” I want to be a centenarian who can shake, rock, and roll.
When I become queen bee of the block, I’ll still drink cherry Coke and eat popcorn at the movies. I’ll never stop writing letters.
I’ll always yearn for a book that draws me in and demands my every waking moment.
I’ll never stop trying new foods. I’ll never believe everything they say on TV.
I’ll always listen to and sing with Billy Joel and Alison Krauss and Bob Dylan and Dolly Parton.
At 100, I hope my get up and go will not have gotten up and went, that I’ll have more wisdom than wrinkles, and I’ll stay up to date on the latest technology innovations. I don’t want to be an old-fashioned centenarian.
I’ll never grow too old for fireworks. I’ll never ski down a black diamond slope.
I’ll always welcome the hand of the love of my life as he wraps it around mine.
History dictates that, at 100, I’ll be slower and, yes, grayer. Chances are I’ll speak my mind then more than I do now (yikes). Chances are I could lose an important little thing called “tact” (I hope not).
And, if I don’t have the same heart, I hope the new one will have the same capacity to love, the same zest for life, and an even bigger propensity to forgive as the one God gave me 100 years before.