It happened to George Washington. She pointed out with dazzling insight that we all continue to grow, and that if we weren't killed along the way we would age like that old man until we dropped, everyone. This couldn't be. Bewildered, I told my mother the awful things my sister had been saying, which she placidly assured me were true and that I knew it, then offered us all hard boiled eggs. And we do continue to grow, become greater, even as we've begun to die.
Death becomes an intimate.
When my father's father died I didn't want to make the trip to Canada for his funeral. I hardly knew the man, and he'd been old forever. My mother often voiced her resentment at his treating Dad as a rival or as the other son. His death was no surprise. Dad noted bitterly that of course it meant nothing to me, and I was stung, but still refused to go.