In 1977, when I was in my late twenties, my husband and I met an “elderly couple” (he was in his early seventies and she was younger) who impressed us so much that we recently coined a word in their honor. Their last name was Cornyn, and we have paid tribute to them with the word cornyng: when older travelers (that’s now us) are sufficiently adventurous to venture off the beaten path.

I’ve been planning my death for a while now. Decades actually. But then, you’re looking at a guy who has had more imagined terminal illnesses than baseball cards over the span of a lifetime. And I had a lot of baseball cards — that is, until my parents, without asking, decided to throw them all out when I was in college.

Still, there’s important stuff to sort out. Somewhere in the underwear drawer of our Cape Cod home are letters to Kathy, my partner and love (on most days) of 52 years, to my two daughters and to my three grandkids. I write these whenever I fly alone.