Paco turned to me the other night and said, “I’m three [it was his bday last week], what is your number?”
Figuring he meant age, I told him.
“When I am your number, what will be your number?”
In other words, when I am your age, how old will you be then?
“Well, when you are 35, I suppose I will be 67.”
“And when I’m 67?”
On and on it went, until I was 162.
It wasn’t so much the idea that at some point before 162, I would probably die, it was thinking about what Paco and the others might look like when they become 35 or 50.
At that moment, I thought of a few friends, but particularly Ned Stutman, a dear friend of ours who died a few years ago from cancer.
He never saw his oldest child, my good friend Shira, reach the age of 35.
It reminded me of the lack of guarantees in this world, this life.
I think the fear of death, for me at least, isn’t about the fear of the end of my life, it’s in not getting to see the end of the story of my life, which will be written my kids and their descendants.
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