My long-time friend, Glen, died last week. The first thing Glen and I did together in Detroit, 1969 was to go into elevators and face the back to freak people out and then we got stoned. Glen helped my wife and I set the poles (trees) in the house we built in West Virginia. He and his wife had wanted us to move to Maine and live with them, but it was too cold for us. Glen died of brain cancer. His children took care of him for the last six weeks of his life in his home. Not a nurse among them.
After his memorial service two generations talked about the death of our parents. Some very old, others not so old. We had all guided our parents to a threshold we couldn’t cross with them. Such a gift, being at a threshold with people. From entering a room to leaving life. One minute you’re in one space and the next it’s another. Thresholds of all kinds are a special intimacy.
My heart swells to watch the next generation get that. We did something right. Be well Glen. We are.