Arthur has had friends die, he has visited them in hospitals near the end, and always he saw something when people were ready: a gentle turning-away-from. And what he always hoped was that in turning away, they were also turning toward. For everything there truly is a season; if his life’s work has not taught him that, it has taught him nothing. The birth of spring, the fullness of summer, the push of glory in the fall, the quiet of winter.
