I'm going to a memorial service this evening for a friend who died way too young. He had just turned forty. He has an equally young wife, who is a dear friend, and a very young son. Every single thing about the end of his story is wrong, especially the fact that it's the end of his story. It should be the middle. This, I tell myself as a forty-something, is where it's supposed to get interesting. It's where we pick up steam. Where we figure stuff out. Where we get to apply all that stuff we lear [...]
