When I was young I sometimes used to sit in the evening with an old aunt while she told her rosary beads. I remember she once said to me that when each day was ending she always did two things – she looked back and thought how beautiful the day had been, remembering even the simplest things; and she thought about her death.
To a child it seemed a puzzling combination but she was a serene and joyful old lady so I assumed it was no bad thing to do. Later, of course, I saw that there was religious significance in her evening thoughts that turned in two such different directions – praise God for the beauty of the day but remember also that such beauty passes away all too soon. It was like the great warriors in ancient Rome who paraded in triumphant glory after victory but always had a slave beside them whispering in the ear as they rode: “Remember, you too are mortal.”
A strange thing is that when I remember that serene old lady talking about her
