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Laura Hahn

At 32, I didn’t expect to move into my mom’s basement. I also didn’t expect to miss it so much, now that I’m gone.
Growing up, we got our Christmas trees from Mr. Munro, the man who owned our house before us.
My grandmother lived with Alzheimer’s disease for years. And for years, my family and I would say things like:
I’m 32 and I live in my mom’s basement.
One of my very best friends died three years ago. He happened to be my grandfather, who was 96 years old. He was ready. It was time.
There were yoga classes in California’s Silicon Valley and line dances in Washington. There were bocce ball matches in Rochester, N.Y., and water volleyball games in Mason City, Iowa. But best of all, across the country, there were younger people and older people coming together to participate.
They clutched their binoculars and scribbled notes in their programs. They paced behind the teller windows and snagged seats just before post time. Some spent the day on their own, but most huddled in groups, talking stats, favorites and odds.
“What can the very young and the very old offer each other, if given the chance?”
I met Arthur six years ago, thanks to an online ad.
As we pedaled along, it was as if we shared a bike path with the whole city.
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