Last night I had a dream. My parents were old and nearing the end of their lives, and they wanted to spend their time where they had been the happiest. The bought the house I grew up in, and I went to help them move.

As the three of us sat around the kitchen table, we discussed all the happy chaos that room had brought. We laughed over the coats that were always on the chairs, backpacks at feet, the noise of the room at any given moment, and all the meals we had shared. We reminisced about the games we had played during dinner and all the company we had, including all the "he could be the one" boyfriends.

As we discussed this, I felt a huge amount of gratitude that I still had my family to raise, and for all the happy chaos surrounding me. I was thankful for our loud meals, crunchy floors, and backpacks in front of the door. Then I looked down. Instead of my hands, I saw old hands, wrinkled, spotted and scarred with age. Then I realized my time had passed, and all the happy chaos I loved had gone with it.

I woke up sobbing, thankful for the small amount of perspective I was given.