My father used to say that by counting up our years, we’re actually looking at age backwards. “We really don’t know how old we are now unless we know when we are going to die,” he said. If you die at 50, from his perspective you were old at 45, even if you didn’t know it. Hmmmm. My father died of cancer at 61, not realizing that when he first put forth his premise he wasn’t actually middle-aged, but “old.” I like his viewpoint because it keeps top of mind the fact our culture so often avoids: we will all die, and our lives may be shorter than we imagine they will be. This perspective, honed not only by remembering