I just turned 78. In spite of my gray hair, a trick knee, and distorted finger joints, I don’t feel old yet. Yet I know that as I keep racing through days that seem to keep getting shorter, I won’t have time to finish all I hope to in this life. Realistically, according to my family’s history, I’ve got no more than eleven years left. I’m determined to make the most of them. And I don’t like that I’m likely to live the last few of them alone. My husband is four years older and more disabled. Now I have no walking partner and I miss sharing my walks with him.