In Search of Oldton

I don't like to think that he planned his little trip in advance.

I'd rather it just occurred to him one day, and off he went. He was, though, a fairly neat and meticulous person. As I sat across the table from him playing cards, or we tonked croquet balls across the lawn, he was probably already calculating the best way to die.

I'm not sure what one looks like when one thinks about death. Perhaps not very different from the way we look most of the time. Perhaps that means we're all thinking about death a bit more often than we care to admit.

This whole site, too, could be a form of rehearsal. I deal out the Oldton cards, and dad's death becomes more real, less imaginary.

Writers for the Future