I’ve spent a lot of time lately with death, or with almost-death.  I don’t want to get morbid or philosophical, or even squeamish at how messy the process is. 

I only want to say one thing:  death is an inconvenient bastard.

Either he gets to the tree too early, when the fruit is still green, or he dawdles in late as it rots on the ground.  He doesn’t read the seasons well. 

Death at the right time is a friend, as they say, but I’m convinced he can’t tell time, so he tends to come too late or too soon.