My mother is 92. She has lived long enough to see her children become grandparents, neighborhoods change, and the world reinvent itself more than once. She has also lived long enough to say goodbye to people she expected would always be there.
My father died at 86. Last year, my mother’s best friend in the neighborhood died at 89. Now another dear friend, just 77, has been diagnosed with inoperable cancer.
When I think about what it means to live a long life, I often think of the extra birthdays, the family celebrations, and the chance to watch another generation grow up. I think less often about this part: the accumulating goodbyes.