When people look at my childhood photos, the general reaction is, “Wow! You haven’t changed a bit.” I’m always the tall chubby one with dark brown hair, often doing something dramatic such as dancing on the table at the restaurant where my grandmother was a short-order cook or balancing stuff on my head.
Some things haven’t changed. I still am almost always the tallest one in the room, struggle with my weight, and thanks to that same grandmother’s genes have almost no gray hair. Other, important 
things have changed, though you can’t see them in photographs. I’m at least somewhat gentler with others and with myself. I’m happier and less fearful of life.
Recently, one of my sisters spent time with a longtime friend. There’s a darling picture of them and a third girl around the time of their fourth birthdays. My sister and her friend don’t look much different today either; they lost touch decades ago with the other girl. But this time, their annual reunion made me think of the third girl’s younger cousin David whose parents moved into the neighborhood when the girl’s family moved out.
I was thirteen and David two when I first babysat for him. He was a slight child, with big dark eyes and a long face. He was sweet and quiet; his parents didn’t go out often and when they did, they always came home early and sober. A couple of years later, my sister took over as his babysitter, and then the family moved away. Since there was no drama, no stories to tell, I hadn’t thought at all about David in the intervening forty years.
The last name was uncommon, so he was easy to find. Sadly, he died about two years ago in a traffic accident, apparently attempting to avoid a deer. The obituary told of a man who loved his family and his country, a longtime member of the South Dakota Air National Guard and a father active in hockey organizations.
As I looked at the photo, I saw that same two-year-old with big dark eyes and a long face… and I prayed that that childhood sweetness and peace had still been with him at the end.
Mel, I have an odd obsession with the obituaries. I look at them every day, even though I rarely know any of the people, since I’ve only lived in Lake Charles for six years. But I am startled by the number of people who die at “our age.” And I’m encouraged when I see photos of those who die closer to 100. Life is fragile and unpredictable. For that, I say live each day to the fullest, as if it is my last.
Great place for story ideas too!