I suppose I could say flying cars, colonies on Mars, or whatever advanced civilization finally figures out how to make printers work correctly on the first try.
But if I am honest, the future I would most love to see is much closer to home.
I would love to see the full story of my grandchildren’s lives.
If I live to be 80, I could see Sully and Aurelia Dawn when they are about 20 years old. That is not impossible. In fact, it is one of those hopes I hold onto. I would love to see them as young adults, with their own opinions, their own dreams, their own sense of humor, and maybe even their own patient smiles when Granddaddy starts telling one of his stories for the fourth or fifth time.
I hope I get that.
But if that happens, it would also mean I had lived longer in their lives than my parents lived in the lives of their grandchildren.
That thought stops me a little.
I don’t say that as an accusation. Life is fragile, and none of us gets to choose how many years we are given. But I know what it is like for the grandparent years to feel shorter than they should have been. I know what it is like for stories, wisdom, affection, and influence to be cut off before they had time to settle deeply.
I suppose part of this is because I have started doing the family math.
My mother died of cancer when she was 67. My dad died when he was 84, and that is the high-water mark among my parents and grandparents. Dad’s father died at 63. Dad’s mother made it to almost 85, though even that comes with a family footnote. Her tombstone says she was born in 1906, but she was actually born in 1904. She had been shaving two years off her age since she married my grandfather because she was seven years older than he was and apparently decided five years sounded better.
Even mortality gets a little comic relief in my family.
On my mother’s side, her father lived to 81 and her mother lived to 84. So when I look at the numbers, I know that 80 is a reasonable hope. It is not guaranteed, of course. Nothing is. But it is not foolish to imagine.
Still, when I think about it honestly, 20 or so more years on this planet does not feel like a long time.
At 20, I thought 20 years was practically forever. Now it feels like a stack of calendars thin enough to hold in one hand.
That is the strange thing about aging. You don’t necessarily feel old inside. Some days, I still feel like the same person I was decades ago, only with more aches, more passwords to forget, and a much deeper appreciation for comfortable shoes. But then I look at the numbers, and the numbers remind me that time is not unlimited.
Twenty years sounds like a lot until you start measuring it in birthdays, Christmas mornings, school years, ballgames, phone calls, visits, photographs, and ordinary afternoons.
Then it starts to feel precious.
If I make it to 80, I may get to see Sully and Aurelia Dawn at the beginning of adulthood. I may get to hear their grown-up voices, listen to their hopes, laugh at their jokes, and maybe even offer a little advice they may or may not take. I may get to see the opening chapters.
But what I would love to see — and probably won’t — is the fuller arc.
I would love to see them at 40 or 50, after life has had time to test them and shape them. I would love to know what kind of people they become after joy, disappointment, work, love, faith, grief, and grace have all had their say. I would love to see whether they marry, whether they have children, what kind of work they do, what they believe, what they laugh about, and what family stories they keep alive.
And yes, I would love to know whether any part of me remains with them.
Not in a grand, dramatic way. I don’t need a statue, a scholarship fund, or a family holiday where everyone gathers around and recites “The Sayings of Granddaddy Doug.” Although, to be fair, I could probably come up with a few.
I just want enough time to matter.
Enough time for love to become memory.
I want Sully and Aurelia to remember my voice. I want them to remember that I loved them, prayed for them, laughed with them, and showed up for them. I want some phrase, some story, some lesson, some ridiculous joke, or some small act of faithfulness to lodge itself somewhere in their hearts and stay there.
That is the future I would love to see.
Not the distant future of technology or travel or human achievement, as fascinating as all of that might be.
I want to see the future around a family table. I want to see the future in the faces of two grandchildren who will keep growing long after I am gone. I want to see enough of their story to become part of it.
And if I don’t get to see all of it, I hope I can at least help write the beginning.
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Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
What a lovely thought. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this.