by Richard Brookhiser

I am grateful for my health.

I am grateful that my father, who turned 91 on November 25, is as happy and healthy as may be.

I am grateful for my wife, who always gives me good advice and always makes me laugh.

I am grateful that I may do what I like and what I do well, and that other people like it well enough to pay me to keep at it.

I am grateful for every man and woman in the armed forces, in Iraq, Afghanistan, and everywhere else, who guard me while I sleep.

I am unutterably, and even so insufficiently, grateful that there is something rather than nothing, and that one of the things that is is me — a free, fortuitous, didn’t-have-to-happen, once-in-infinity lottery ticket for which I was the lucky winner. Nonexistence would have been so dull, would it not? And even if that’s where I’m headed, I hope to be able to say, “Thanks, it’s been real” as I go.

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