A friend of mine wrote a book, not long ago. It’s doing reasonably well. Every so often I do searches for it to see if there are any interesting reviews for it that he might like to see. (Not necessarily good, or bad, but interesting.)
Last night I read, in one post about it, a comment from someone else that I found confusing. I sent it to my husband, and to our friend, said author. We puzzled. This morning I re-read, googled the name mentioned in the comment, and said, “Oh. He’s saying that this guy, a friend of his, whom he mentioned died, and when he made a video farewell to this guy, he read this one page from your book as part of the farewell. That’s sweet.”
Then I started reading more about this guy who died.
He died loved, too young, not wanting to be alone through that process, with kids he didn’t want to leave,
I didn’t realize before I had a kid, before I had so much love in my life, how badly I do not want to die young.
My mom died young, my sister did, both of them younger than I am now.
I’m not terrified of dying young, it’s not like it’s a daily worry. (It was worse for awhile in my mid-late forties, parallel to when my mom and sister died.) But it’s not a chronic anxiety.
Reading things like this, though, makes me really dislike diseases and accidents that take folks away from loved ones and young children and joy, and want to hang on as long as I can, into tired old age.