Several events have got me thinking about my own mortality. To wit:

I profiled a 96-year-old man for Oak Leaves, the Thornton Oaks monthly newsletter. When I asked his age, he said, “I’m 69, but I have dyslexia.” He ended our conversation by saying, “I don’t know why death is so popular but everyone seems to be doing it.” Three cheers for retaining a sense of humor when other skills begin to slip away.

A good friend recently said, “So many people I know have died in the past few months.” She reported that one woman who’d lost her husband seemed overwhelmed by all the things one must do when a spouse dies in addition to grieving. One example: Do you have an original copy of your marriage certificate?

Another friend returned from California where he said a final goodbye to his older brother who has only a short time to live.

My men’s group at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church recently spent time discussing the end of life. Are you ready to die? Are you afraid? Do you have regrets? Etc., etc., etc.

St. Paul’s recently held a workshop after the morning service on the topic of planning your own funeral. I passed or, given the nature of this piece, decided not to attend.

At my 60th Bowdoin College reunion, I had the honor of reading the names of our deceased classmates. The list included about one-third of the 200 young men who came to Bowdoin in the fall of 1960. The list gets longer at every reunion.

The Welsh poet Dylan Thomas wrote a poem about facing death entitled, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night,” which begins:

“Do not go gentle into that good night /

Old age should burn and rave at close of day; /

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

In fairness, Thomas never reached old age. He was only 39 when he died, and heavy drinking no doubt played a role in his early demise. At 81 (maybe I should borrow the joke about dyslexia and claim I’m 18), I have a different take on the issue. I’m not raging at all; rather, I’m feeling quite philosophical. That said, it’s sad to see so many people around my age — or even younger — die.

I’m lucky to have been blessed with good genes when it comes to longevity. My dad died at 97; my mother died just before turning 90; and two of my grandparents lasted into their eighties. All of them retained their mental faculties for the most part. That said, you never know. You really don’t.

About 25 years ago, we thought Tina’s breast cancer had returned after successful treatment two years earlier. Right after we learned that news, we were listening to the Boston affiliate of NPR. They announced a poetry contest for which the entries were to write something deeply emotional using the tanka form of Japanese poetry.

(The first tanka concerned the time I learned about the lump on Tina’s breast.)

Stranger at the Door

“God, I have a lump!”

“Could it be? Not you, too soon.”

The stranger’s here. Wait!

Our love, their drugs, keep teams lit.

Come back tomorrow, stranger.

(The second tanka concerned the time we thought that the cancer had returned.)

Beast and the Beauty

The beast returns now,

And with it more sweet sorrow.

Be done tears, go fears.

Outside, now, to look for joy

Nature bears her beauty too.

I was one of two contestants chosen to read their tankas on the air. More important, the cancer had not returned. It was a false alarm. The message then and now: Live each day.

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns at dtreadw575@aol.com.