Brooke 21 months, Brenda 61 years
My two best friends in life, Tom and Martha, both died when they were 61 — and I am 61. I’m doing everything I can to stay alive until the end of March when I turn 62.
Mostly, I’m not taking any chances with my health, especially in this home stretch. I figure if I can make it three more months, I’ll be 62 and past the possibility of dying at 61. That is my plan—make it to 62. Until then I’m a fallow field.
As a fallow field, I take it upon myself to think, feel, and do as little as possible. Just be, I say, like an unseeded field at rest for a season. New seasons will come, new seeds will fall. I will be productive again. If I’m lucky, I will live to be 90 or more like Uncle Fred and Ilona Smithkin.
I wish Tom and Martha had been luckier. Sixty-one feels like the wrong time to die.