Many years ago when I was much younger, I thought anyone in their 40s was old, anyone in their 60s really old, and anyone in their 70s, well, lucky to be alive.
Yet the more I live in the decade I am, the more I like to think there is nothing old about the decade I am. And that those in their 50s and 60s and 70s aren't that old either.
Such a thing — age — the older we get, the more we hope older is not what we're getting. But older we are getting. Old enough to know that the good still die young, and that no matter the age, those who leave us still seem very young.
Like Dana Reeve — brave, vibrant, beautiful, and now at the tender age of 44, dead, succumbing to lung cancer without ever smoking.
And like Minnesota Twins legend Kirby Puckett — sidelined from baseball by glaucoma, sidelined from life at 45 by a stroke.
Both so talented, so giving, and now, so gone…so young.
I guess 20-somethings and younger will surmise, it's not all that something to die at 40-something unless you are 40-something, or 50-something, or 60-something.
And you remember the days when you too thought these figures seemed ancient and now pray and hope that they are not.
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