When you get to my age, you think about death

When I turned 50, I was stunned. I said to myself: “But 15 years ago I was only 35.” But then I thought: “In 15 years I will be 65! How is that possible? Whoops!” And then time played a trick on me. Today I am 72 years old! How is it The possible?

When my wife and I bought our home from an older couple, we were amazed to find that they had lived in that home for 25 years. We have now lived in that home for 47 years and we are the older couple.

The British author HG Wells wrote in his famous book The time machine, “We are always moving away from the present moment.”

I know I shouldn't think about death when life around me is bursting with children and grandchildren, good health and a new grill.

I said to my wife the other day, “It's wonderful to be enjoying middle age.” She looked at me as if my brain was on a grill and said, “If this is your middle age, you'll live to be 144.”

“Well,” I argued, “my mother lived to be 99 and my father died three months after his 100th birthday.”

The oldest living man in the United States – or at least the man who until recently was the oldest living man – Morrie Markoff, died on June 3 at his home in Los Angeles at the age of 110.

The Frenchwoman Jeanne Calment lived to the age of 122 and died in 1997. OK, so I was 22 years off when calculating the average age. Maybe with artificial intelligence, pig hearts and Wheaties I'll live to the age of 144.

But then we reach an age when we begin to think about the reality of death. Blessed are we who, despite our worries and our dying, live lives full of joy and optimism.

Emily, a girl who died young in Thornton Wilder's play Our citycried out from the grave, “O Earth, you are too wonderful for anyone to understand! Does any human being ever understand life while he is living it – every single minute?” We all still have time to understand life, whether we have only a few months or many years left to live.

There is still time to admire the cherry blossoms. They have done their job: painted spring, boldly exposed, overcoming inhibitions.

Time is measured in the seasons of the clock, visible in the changing face of the moon, a light brought down from the darkness in our longing for the dawn, or the voice of a lover, or the scent of the fresh summer soil. Admire a flower. There is no substitute for lupins. Life consists of a single season.

In her famous poem RebirthEdna St. Vincent Millay, who died in 1950, wrote: “I wish I were alive again to kiss the fingers of the rain.”

The poet Mary Oliver wrote that death is not a hole in the ground.

When I die, Way into the futureI would like to leave the following note to my children and grandchildren:

I must speak to you before I die. The grave waits and is impatient. I am not prepared. I must first sit back for a moment and tell you that there is one final message, one final opportunity to explain what has been given.

The sea has more to offer than we know, and more waiting for us than we can imagine. I stand here at the door, but first I turn to you and embrace you with a whisper: “Everything will be fine. Everything is fine. Everything will be returned to you a thousand roses at once.”

You may think that separation is the sorrow. That is not the case. There is no separation, only a movement in front of you, taking my place with my baggage.

I don't know much except that in the fall the leaves fall and the sorrows are a thing of the past. Look, I know the season is here. I hear the wind and the cold is coming.

Take my hand. It is still warm in these last moments. Remember the heat. Remember the warmth; remember the Ferris wheel and the summer beach.

Come together, come together. Accompany me as I say goodbye. It is not a sweet pain, but the realization that not everything is lost, that not everything is over in the grave.

Look, I'm not afraid. Don't be afraid. Wait, wait, here for a kiss and a hug. Look beyond this room. Find the garden or the trees in the park or anything that bears fruit or carries the coming of spring.

We are here just for a little prayer and for the gospel that is life as we sing the hymns.

Amen, amen, I say to you, not a farewell, but a new dimension, a new way of communicating. I am with you. I will always be with you. I hear the carriage and the horse neighing.

I am already resting in my coffin. I am slowly retreating, without fading, my dear ones. Follow me. The wheels make no noise. Don't cry, don't cry. Look, the horizon is always open.

Death is not a hole in the ground.

We welcome your opinion in a letter to the editor. Read the guidelines and Send your letter hereIf you have any problems with the form, you can send it by email to the following address: [email protected]