|
|
|
|
|
|
My
father was ninety years old in January, 2000. As a
much younger man he never expected to see that milestone year.
We talked about it once -- it was a fairly short talk, a
father chatting with his son outside, after a game of catch, one
muggy Brooklyn evening in the 1950s. It scared me then,
deeply impressed me -- this mortality thing -- the thought of
a parent, my parent, my Father, no longer existing. He had no idea how strongly
that talk would be seared in my memory.
Not only did he see the year 2000, but also he saw the
three new years that followed. He was in reasonable
health and active until very close to the end.
|
| |
|
|
 |
|
