I was reading the opening page of The History of Love by Nicole Krauss and I thought, “Wow, that’s uncomfortably familiar.”

Late last week before last I tripped over a case of cat food on the floor (Oh the irony! The Instacart shopper got the wrong one, stuff fussy Ginger won’t eat) and had a bad fall. I crashed through the kitchen door, into the fridge, and landed on my back on the floor. I was SO lucky not to have gotten more than bumps and bruises and humiliation. But I spent several days convalescent and contemplating the folly—of my household arrangements, among other things. Since recovering I’ve been trying to get things off the floor and moving with extreme caution. Not for the first time I’ve thought that I do not envy those who have to clean out this place when I croak.

This dovetailed with an article I read yesterday about artist Francis Hines whose life work was thrown into a dumpster when he died.

(Happy ending: someone came along ahead of the trash collectors who recognized it and saved it.)

Our posterity as artists is often left to those who don’t appreciate the urge to do art and think it’s all just a bunch of junk. And maybe it is. But it’s also difficult, when you reach a certain age, to realize your life’s work may end up in a dumpster. I’d like to think my life meant more than a waste of oxygen and resources. I know I’m not alone in this feeling but it is one of the hazards of having no family.

I don’t think “legacy keepers” is ever a valid excuse to have children (and no guarantee that will work out for you, anyway). The only valid reason to have children is because you really want them, and I never did. I like kids quite a lot, just never thought I had the talent for raising them. And those are my Mother’s Day thoughts. Gods bless all those who had the desire for kids and the talent and drive and patience and willingness to not only raise them but center their lives around making them good human beings. O Heroic Ones, I salute you!