Three of my close friends died in their forties leaving seven grammar-school students motherless.  Two of the mothers died of lung cancer in spite of the fact that neither of them smoked, and the third died while waiting for a liver transplant.

Something about this year has made me think of them often.

When they died, our generation had never experienced a pandemic.  Nor had we experienced the sadly divided United States that went to the polls last week.  Or perhaps it’s because if a member of our generation dies now it’s sad, but not tragic.

When I think of Helen, Linda and Patti, I think of the wonderful years they have missed.  I would not include 2020.