Landing at Burbank Airport always feels like stepping back in time. No jetways here — just a long ramp to the tarmac, painted lines and a gate built 80 years ago. It’s Casablanca with carry-ons. Humphrey Bogart could have met us at the door.

Old. That’s the theme. I’m old. So are many of us. Boomers, they call us. We’re the sons and daughters of the Greatest Generation. The youthful me once flew out of this airport at 30. It seemed old then.

Now we’re both aging out together.

Us boomers are a bulge in the system — 80 million strong, marching into our 70s, 80s, and beyond. Policy makers, take note: How are we going to care for our elders?

Carrie and I had just returned from visiting our daughter and 16-month-old granddaughter, Izzy — a walking, babbling bundle of life. Coming off the 737 into timeworn Burbank, the juxtaposition hit hard. The beginning and end of life. All in one flight.

Back home, reality landed with a thud. Carrie’s 94-year-old father, who suffers from dementia, lives at home under 24/7 care. It’s expensive — so I was writing Carrie’s brother to talk options. While mid-draft, a text popped up: My son’s mother-in-law, also battling dementia, had fallen and was in hospice. Headed for morphine and........

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