I thought they were only supposed to come in threes

I am fortunate enough to not confront death regularly. It has been a long time since a friend or family member has died. In recent weeks, though, death has crept into my life, lurking at the edges, snatching people-once-removed from me. None of the people who have died are close to me—I haven’t met all of them—but they matter a lot to people in my life. I have been reminded of how lucky I have been.

A few weeks ago, the father of K, the woman who coordinates my volunteer program, died. He had been in the hospital for months. K had been making frequent Atlantic crossings to be with family.

A few days after that, a professor beloved by many of my friends from college died after a long illness. I never took any of his classes, but had a few really nice interactions with him.

Most scarily, the mother of B, a good friend from college, died in a hiking accident. She was relatively young and healthy. She was an excellent cook. I didn’t tell my parents about her death before they set off on their recent hiking vacation, not wanting to subconsciously suggest anything to them.

And my best friend’s grandfather also passed, or ‘fell asleep’ as is frequently written on the older tombstones at the Derry City Cemetery (where I took a long, ponderous wander last week). I have very fond memories of watching Jeopardy! and Mariners’ games with him and impressing him with my knowledge of random trivia.

Big, beautiful, Northern Ireland-style murals (but with fewer guns and no nationalist symbols) should be painted for all of them.