Liz welcomed us to Hornby 16 years ago. Our cabin was small and poorly heated then and we spent many hours in her eclectic house on the water, drinking tea as she sat in her chair by the stone fireplace. She came to Hornby when she was in her sixties, recently divorced and with only a small librarian’s pension. Volunteer architecture students dragged logs up from the beach and rigged fish nets for top floor railings to build her house. An antique wood stove below filled most of the kitchen and over the years her house grew with paintings and pottery and spinning wheels and a custom made twelve foot couch from her more prosperous married days. When we visited we’d talk about the eagles or American politics, depending on our moods, and watch out the window for whales. She was well read, smart and welcoming, always generous with her time. For the kids the candy bowl was always full. Every summer day we saw Liz “at the rocks” at five pm, for a swim in the bay, when the water warmed as it rushed in over the hot sand. As the years passed she moved a little slower across the rocks to get to the water, but she always swam gracefully, with swift long arms and legs and a still lanky body. Then in the blur of summers she began leaving a cane at the edge of the water beside her towel. It was shortly after that that her daughter would accompany her into the water to the place where buoyancy took over. Then suddenly Liz didn’t swim anymore. She still came to the water’s edge at five, but sat some distance away, watching the water from the seat of her walker. She didn’t talk as much from that vantage point but sat looking at the shimmering light for a long time. Time blurred again and Liz became a less frequent presence though last summer and as recent as spring we saw her go by outside, pushed in her wheelchair pushed by her caregiver. We’d come out to say hello and she always smiled, seeming to recognize our faces but often not remembering from where. For Liz’s 90th birthday last week her family held an extended open house. Expecting to see Liz sitting up in her wheelchair it was unsettling to confront a large bed in the living room, Liz propped up under the covers, unable to turn around. Friends streamed constantly through the doorway, but hushed as they entered. Most visited briefly at her bedside, then, awkward at intruding into what was now a bedroom, quickly faded to the food tables. At times, with island bouquets and birthday cards on every surface, presents she couldn’t unwrap and new faces continually looming over her Liz would get overwhelmed. It was then she’d pick up the newspaper and adjust her glasses. The guests would retreat like the tide and Liz’s two devoted caregivers would move in beside her. Her daughter told her that at one such moment Liz motioned her closer and whispered “If you weren’t here I’d be scared right now”. Wouldn’t you be, if you couldn’t turn your head to see all these people coming into your bedroom? People ate, but the fresh crab, chicken, cheeses, stuffed Indian breads, watermelon, blueberries and dark Bing cherries weren’t devoured with the gusto one normally expects, and much of the iced cakes and cookies, lime sabayon and frozen chocolate mousse was untouched. People mainly talked quietly, frequently looking over at Liz. Many were in their seventies, some older, and the hushed tones were as much for themselves as for Liz, everyone’s mortality looming all too clear on this sparkling summer day. Even at ninety life can seem so very delicate and short-lived. Whether it was a birthday or a living wake, this will likely be Liz’s last one. A person could do worse than spending their last months at home, surrounded by people who love them. Still, it’s bittersweet, to be finishing last days on this beautiful planet. It’s like that Robert Frost poem, Nothing Gold Can Stay : Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf, So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day Nothing gold can stay. Gillian