I was in a small country cemetery recently, thinking about autumn and life and the end of another baseball season, when I saw these trees. All of them marching toward the sleep of winter, the one on the right still filled with leaves, another with only a few left to give. I wondered, “Which one am I?” As of this writing, I am forty-two years old. No spring sapling, that’s for sure. I’m old enough and experienced enough to know that I could be either tree. I think about death a lot, mostly because it helps me think about my life, and how well I’m spending it. Anniversaries are piling …
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