Begins with eyeblinks and uncovering, with sitting, perhaps with dislodging the dog/cat/loved one sleeping close. It begins with rising, the first moment of being vertical, for some of us with the first blush of sun, for others, if we are fortunate, into brightness through a window. For some of us, perhaps we startle awake on a park bench or sidewalk, with footsteps and a glare of passers-by, a blare of horn.

Every day the journey begins anew, no matter how difficult the night or the day before. Yours nothing like mine—you going for coffee, me for tea. You heading to an office—me stepping outside to salute the sun, even when it hides. You nudging children awake, getting them ready for school, or freshening the diaper, or fetching spoons and cereal, tugging shoes onto small feet, then getting yourself out the door into the grownup world.

Me and others like me grateful that our office days are behind us, that our time is mostly our own, filling it in ways we could not when we were younger. Or not filling the days at all, depending on our capabilities, our need for assistance. Remembering that our journeys are not yet done and finding ways to share what we have and who we are.

Every day the journey reminds us that no matter who and what we are, I rely on you as you rely on me—guests on this planet—to walk through life companionably, to hold the door, to say thank you, to water the plants, stop at the red signs, and to pick up the bit of trash rather than step over it. To listen more than we speak and to sing more often. To open the hinges of our hearts and let in some light, as well as emanate some of our own.

To let you be you and me be me, but with a smile, a handshake, perhaps a hug, acknowledge the in-it-togetherness of these journeys that nudge up next to each other—not against. To remember that this moment might be the last with the person before us now.

We cannot say thankyouthankyouthankyou enough.

We just can’t.