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 up. Pictures from my early days of marriage looks less and less like the person that greets me in the mirror each morning. And my kids. They are growing up so fast. Too fast. Memories of their newborn days seem like borrowed photographs from someone else’s life. Life can be hard, but it is good. I’d give anything to slow it all down. I rack my brain for something I can do to help. How do I …
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