I recently asked if you are afraid of death. The following is a piece I wrote several years ago which describes, in a metaphor, how I (as an old man) feel about death:

My old friend, the conductor to death, still waits quietly in the wings. But, as I go through my final years I converse with him more often. I tell him that I do not hold his role against him because I know that it is the natural order of things. He responds that he appreciates my understanding and my willingness to accept reality. I tell him that I appreciate the fact that he will be there when the time comes to relieve me of mental anguish and physical pain. He assures me that he will act.

I share with him my reflections on how aging is a process of having to give up things which add to the quality of life, time of loss of dreams and aspirations, a time when (with fewer new experiences we are driven to reflect on past experiences, life chapters, successes, failures, memories. He tells me that such inward reflection are a healthy way for people to gain a sense of who they are, a process not possible in an aspiring young person. Such is the nature of our dialogue.

Both the conductor to death and I know that when the time comes, he will step forward and say, "it is time." I will shake his hand, gesture for him to lead the way, and follow him into peaceful oblivion. I find that image comforting.