I'll be 64 in February. I think I'm one of those guys about whom younger men say they hope they'll look "that good" when they're "that old." I eat my vegetables, and stay trim with weights, yoga, and lots of dips into the new skills pool. After all is said and done though, I'm still "that old."
I met a high school friend's mom at a funeral Tuesday, frail, but entirely compos mentis. She didn't recognize me.
It's sobering, because I figured that, except for the white beard, I look like I did fifty years ago. Tall, all my hair, flat bellied, and, pretty obviously, "one of the Roarks."
Believe it or not, I hadn't expected a memento mori at a funeral. The emotion I've always felt at funerals is a sympathetic grief for the family, and I did lose a little bit of "it," when the deceased's nine- and fifteen-year olds delivered wine and water at the Offertory.
Life is short.
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