Annie and I drank tea. She asked me what was new since I saw her last.
I told her that Chelsea had come home for the weekend, that our roof was repaired, that Ladelle had arrived home safely, and that my Aunt Sara had passed away.
"How old was your Aunt Sara?" Annie asked.
For a brief second that took on a life of its own inside of me, my thoughts darted down different response avenues, and they went like this:
1) If I tell Annie my Aunt was in her eighties, will it make her feel old?
2) If I tell Annie my Aunt was younger than her, will it make her feel her days are numbered?
3) If I tell Annie they were more or less the same age… Oh God, why did I say my Aunt died?
4) How can I get around this without bringing focus to Annie's age?
As I stammered because of the issue's sensitivity, Annie took my hand with an all-knowing smile, "We are mortal. Each of us will have our turn. I am ready… that doesn't mean I want to die, but it is inevitable. You are at an age where you start to calculate; when you hit the 70s, you know that every day is a gift, and you take it as it comes. But when you hit 90… well, let's say you know what is behind the curtain, and it is what it is.
Your Aunt, I am sure, had a good life. 80 is very good. But living and being in good health at 90 is a miracle, nothing less."
(Photo taken inside of a church at Cotignac. This is a tiny detail of a vast oil painting hanging behind the altar.
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