'The Long Habit of Living'

“Perfect weather. And to think that on such a day people are still dying!” Sometimes I suspect the human imagination is by nature Gothic, though histrionic may be a better description. We like to dramatize things. Death is supposed to occur in the shadows, away from the reassuring touch of sunlight. Thunder cracks, rain fills the streets, tall trees fall. The day my brother died in a Cleveland hospice was beautifully sunny, about 80 degrees, no rain, low humidity, a perfect day in August near the shore of Lake Erie. I had opened the curtains so the afternoon sunlight could fall on Ken. He had been unconscious for several days but he would have enjoyed it. I’ve just seen a characteristic photo of my brother – almost smiling, head cocked ironically, Old Testament-looking -- posted by our friend Gary Dumm. The passage at the top is the April 20, 1909 entry in Jules Renard’s Journal. His tone, like Ken’s, is essentially comic but also a little cranky. Renard’s other entry that day: “My…