Scientists say all our cells are replaced every seven years.

I plan to scoop up my old cells and reassemble my seven old selves. Throw them a big pity party as a distraction. Then leap naked and shameless into my latest incarnation.
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People and things are like cells—replaced, time and again.

Like a goldfish named Sonny replaced by an identical goldfish named Cher in the fishbowl of our youth. Like the queue of father figures stepping into our angry fathers’ shoes.
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Humans are glorified cells of the Earth.

But the Earth doesn’t need us the way it needs bees. According to a recent survey, three out of four of my friends say: the Earth needs us like geese need molten lava.
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Now imagine each of your cells is an individual:

complete with a personality, pet peeves, and secret pain. Imagine bacteria cells roaming your body’s inner prairie like the tiniest bison.
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The cells dally and gossip their lives away, but a few quiet cells know their time is a wisp of match-light. They marvel at the magnificent vistas within your body: their whole world. They wonder if other perfect bodies with intelligent life could exist elsewhere, in the mystery of outer space.