In the year 2150 CE I would be 164 years old, except I won’t have made it there. Despite remarkable advancements in medicine and largely solving the physical degradation associated with aging, I will have died in an accident.
My wife will have passed away in a terrorist bombing of our quaint but aging neighborhood, the fallout of an ideological crusade against the very old. The attackers believe that the old must die in order to make room for a new generation.
Although the violent splinter groups of that ideological faction will be swiftly put down, the damage incurred to society will ripple far and wide. Personally I will be emotionally crushed by the death of my wife of over a century, and my feelings about my own life will run through my head over and over for several years.
Although my wife and I had lived comfortably together for many decades, our lifestyle didn’t translate well into a single, widower’s life. I opted to take on the world, participating in every high risk sport and activity on the books, from cageless shark diving, cave diving, free-climbing Yosemite’s big walls, hang-gliding from airplane launches, and base jumping. In the end I bite the dust in a Mt. Everest hike, my slowly aged body unable to handle the rigorous environment.
My daughter will take up the role as head of the family, carrying out our traditional family celebrations which include huge birthday celebrations and memorials as well as simple celebrations of each other’s continued support. Some of my younger descendants only make it to the celebrations twice a decade, as the transit time back to Earth from their various places of residence off-world makes annual visits unrealistic.
My great great granddaughter is one of the first generations to be born and raised primarily off-world, learning the beauty of Earth’s scenery only after having grown up in closed-bubble, recycled-air space stations and Martian colony pods. She cries for hours on end when she sees the Norwegian fjords in person and tells her mother she’s never leaving Earth. Her mother says that they can’t afford real estate here, so she’ll have to cope with the once every five year visits.
My grandson participates in a research and development team that discovers signs of a habitable planet theoretically in reach of human exploration. The government of Spain sponsors an intrepid explorer to lead a colony on the two-thousand year trek, though they thoroughly realize that the journey will likely render them incapable of transitioning back to surface life, if they even survive the radiation. No one will hear of their success or failure until another fifty years after their arrival. My grandson wonders what will become of Earth in the span of that journey and if there will be a human race left to receive the news.