This is a lovely contemplative post about the passing of time... my father died when I was 18, but my stepdad-- who was actually part of my life since about age 12 when my parents divorced was a fierce and fearsome "Old School Brit" of loud voice and lacking feeling. To some extent, I got to watch him waste away-- especially after my mother's passing-- and become old, and frail, and older and frailer. I, too, felt mostly pity and sadness...

I feel hopeful that I have inherited the genes of my father's remaining family. I learned most of what I know about aging from my late auntie who lived by herself in a pretty sizable house with a lot of garden... even in her 90's. I remember watching her-- at 85-- complaining that the occasional yard helper who come by "was getting old" at 72 and she felt she had to "help him" too much. Even at 91, I remember watching her in the garage, working on the garden tractor... saying "well, sometimes you just have to kick it in the right spot!"

She died a 94, after lunch. Literally. Had lunch with my cousin who was there for a visit... she told him "You know, I've done pretty much everything I could hope for, here in this world." Then he left, she went for her usual afternoon nap... and never woke up. I think that would be the most... elegant... way to go.

So are you planning to head back to Greece?