We played that song at our wedding, never quite believing we’d ever get that old.
We did, or at least I did. Chip is always quite proud to announce he’s six months younger, so he’s not there yet.
My father died when he was 64, on this day in 1977. I look around me: at my children, about the same age my brother and I were then; at the trees just turning toward another autumn; at all the life still left to live; and realize how hard it must have been for him to let go.