I remember going to my auntie Pauline’s house in winter when I was eight or nine and she made me a roast beef sandwich. I ate it and fell asleep next to a fire. I felt like a cat, fed and left to nap.

Cycling around Martha’s Vineyard alone in the summer of 1976.

A year ago, after only four lessons, skiing alone in the Sierras.

I'm happy a lot; the birth of children produced the biggest highs, along with parachuting.

The loss of anything, be it a loved one or a faculty—my sight, hearing, or mind.

At the right time, and like my father—utterly without fear or pain, at home, with all whom I love. It was his last lesson as a parent to me.

In my bed, a hot-water bottle on my tummy, the windows are open, reading a book that I’m already into, chocolate at hand, all with the knowledge that everyone I love and know is happy.

My mother. She’s 85 and rather than diminishing with age, she keeps surprising and growing more marvelous. She finds fun when most are jaded, wonder when most are cynical, and is curious when most are bored. She gave me life and continues to show me how to live it daily. And I know that everyone who meets her thinks the same.

My distractibility, diminishing memory, and capacity for sustained concentration. My English master once said I had the brain of a butterfly. I feel that 40 years later, I’ve evolved into Dory from Finding Nemo.