When I lived in Chile in the late 70’s…

…there was a constant string of processions to the cemetery in winter. Poorly heated houses, old people, mediocre medical facilities. Colds and flu and pneumonia in the dead of winter…often a death sentence.

Now I sit in East Tennessee feeling spring come out around me…the awakening. Leaves peeking, wondering if it’s safe to come out. Grass saying, “…to hell with it,” and coming out anyway. Sunshine, warmth, fresh rains, shades of green. My soul lives.

In spring, I always wonder what season would be best for dying. Not now, amidst all the promise. Not summer, with blue sky and friends, cold beer and campfires. And dying in the winter would be…well, giving up.

So…fall? And miss the frost and chill, the twilight of another year? The promise of winter evenings with whiskey and a fire?

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