For this opening, I was trying to imagine a different kind of apocalypse. No nuclear wars or alien invasions. No catastrophic asteroid strikes or even plagues or zombies. What would a quiet, stealthy apocalypse look like?

I am a child of the Cold War. When I imagined humanity’s annihilation, I envisioned sinister mushroom clouds blighting the world’s landscapes, their deadly concussive waves roiling across the earth like tsunamis of destruction.

But Mother Earth is more subtle than man. The death she sent was imperceptible, so quiet we didn’t even realize we’d been struck a fatal blow.

I am dying, as all men must, as humanity itself now will. I have no regrets. I have lived a full life; born healthy children; seen them grow to adulthood; held my grandchildren in my arms. No, my regrets are not for things left undone in my life, but for the generations that will not come after me.

I am surrounded by the familiar: the bed I shared with my beloved husband for nearly seventy years supports me in my decline, the quilt I made for his fortieth birthday comforts me, its colors still jewel bright though my sight is dimming. The room is lit by the soft glow of candles in jars, a whim of my youngest daughter. She hopes the sweet aromas of lavender, jasmine, and chamomile will tempt my soul to stay, but I am not interested in lingering. I know what the future holds and I am ready to relinquish my place in it.

I study the faces of my family. The legacy my beloved and I created together in love. Strong, handsome sons. Beautiful, capable daughters. And the grandchildren, grown to adulthood now, though I will always remember them as infants.

There should be great-grandchildren as well. That is my sorrow. The loss of the precious lives that might have been.

My daughters have known the joys and fears of motherhood; my granddaughters never will. I mourn for the birthright they will never experience.

The exquisite pain of childbirth: sheer physical labor that saps the strength and leaves you panting and begging for relief. The inexpressible joy when it is finished and the soft, warm weight you have carried so long beneath your heart is finally placed in your arms. The wonder of seeing your child’s features for the first time: your button nose, his cleft chin, the shape of your mother’s ear. Ten tiny fingers clutching your one. Toes curling as delicately as rose petals. Tufts of downy-soft hair and skin so smooth and silky you’re afraid your rough fingers will mar its perfection.

And the smell! The glorious, delicious smell of infancy, an indescribable but unmistakable combination of warm skin, soft breath, milk, and primal magic that binds a mother to her child, making it nearly impossible to put your newborn down or allow someone else to take the babe from your arms.

This is what we have lost. This is what will never come again.

I glance at each beloved face and my gaze comes to rest on my youngest granddaughter. Her life will be so very different from mine. She may very well live to see the end of our race. She lifts her eyes and meets my gaze. We mourn for each other.