As one progresses through life we reach various stages. At some point we become aware of death. For some of us this comes early, for others later but we eventually recognize the reality. And most of our experiences have to do with people we perceive as ancient checking out with no forwarding address.

It make sense. They’re old. If you read obituaries (which, by the way, can be some of the funniest reading you’ll ever do) their age at the time of death is anything but premature. “Frank Jones age 99 died unexpectedly…” Unexpectedly? Unexpected for Frank, perhaps, but nobody else.

When you are eight, or nine, or ten years old, people dying in their sixties seems natural. I mean sixty years. they must have been born in a black and white world like the movies back then while trying to avoid being eaten by dinosaurs or scalped by Indians.

Then, when one reaches eighteen or nineteen, people dying in their sixties seem reasonable. I mean they’ve lived a long time, what do you expect?

Then somewhere around thirty-five or so, people dying in the sixties or seventies seems unnecessary, premature, almost unfair. I mean sure their old but a few more years couldn’t hurt. Let ’em recoup some of that Social Security money, enjoy the early bird specials, and buy a Corvette to drive at thirty-five miles per hours in the high speed lane, then go.

When one hits fifty, people dying in their sixties or seventies are just unlucky. Bad luck of the draw. They’ve lived a while but longevity was not on their side. If they make eighty well, what do you expect, immortality?

And then you hit sixty, suddenly obits of people who were younger than sixty jump out at you. You realize you’re like an appliance past the warranty. Next stop, recycling center to be turned into new junk by the Chinese to fill Walmart shelves.

At some point in life we reach the stage where the age of someone dying is tragic, premature, unfair. And the scariest part is when it matches or worse doesn’t quite exceed your own age.

Now, when I read those death notifications and they’re eighty or ninety I shake my head and think, “My goodness, just a kid.” Then I read who they’d like you to donate to in lieu of flowers to figure out what killed them. Come on, don’t lie, you do the same thing.

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