The Winter of My Discontent

In December, a day before my group lunch, my best friend David Caplan, died. In March, a day before our group lunch, my number two best friend Justin Israel, died.

Care to join us? Or are you afraid this might be like Agatha Christie's AND THEN THERE WERE NONE. Who will be the next little Indian to fall?

This is no joke. this is truly the winter of my discontent. This is the end of old age, with its compensating joys and infirmities. I am in a new age now. Call it death's door; call it the bottom of the ninth; call it on borrowed time.

Death lurks around the corner. If not for me, then for people whose company I have enjoyed for years and years. One by one my world shrinks in upon itself. I am not complaining. I am lucky to be reaching towards 90 with my mind intact.

But I have an undercurrent of despair. I am not depressed. It's just that reality is no longer just knowledge. It is felt.

What is it like to be dead? I have said it's like it was in say 1863. The Civil War was raging; Lincoln travelled to Gettysburg. Momentous things. But you and I were not. WE WERE NOT. That's how it is for David and Justin now.

And me soon. And you too.

Hey, I have a wonderful younger wife, five kids and nine grandchildren. We have replaced the missing two in our lunch group. Life goes on.

Until it doesn't.