It hit me when I was at four. A little less than three months ago. As I stood and watched my brothers and cousins carry my Grandpa's coffin. As we buried him with our hands and sweat. That someday - please let it be a far off day - I would be at the funeral of all those around me. Or they would be at mine - depending.
I couldn't know that in little more than two months I would have a whole hand full.
At five I thought of how strange it is that I think in numbers. How cold and detached that seems. But then the even colder thought came of there being a time in my future when my fingers are no longer enough to count with. And the additional toes can have only so many little piggies. A time when I can't remember how many funerals I have been to.
But those are things I cannot control nor would I wish to. All I can do is remember the five thus far and hope the next five take as long to accumulate as the first.
