On the whole, however, it is not our own liability to death that oppresses us. The fear of it to a brave person, not to speak of a person of faith, can be overcome. It is the fear of it for others whom we love that is its sting. And none of us can live very long without knowing in our own heart’s experience the reality, as well as the terror, of death. This, too, has its meaning for us, to look at life more tenderly and touch it more gently. The pathos of life is only a forced sentiment to us if we have not felt the pity of life. To a sensitive soul, smarting with his own loss, the world sometimes seems full of graves and, for a time at least, makes him walk softly among others.

This is one reason why the making of new friends is so much easier in youth than later on. Friendship comes to youth seemingly without any conditions and without any fears. There is no past to look back at with much regret and some sorrow. We never look behind us until we miss something. Youth is satisfied with the joy of present possession. To the young, friendship comes as the glory of spring, a very miracle of beauty, a mystery of birth; to the old, it has the bloom of autumn, beautiful still, but with the beauty of decay. To the young, it is chiefly hope; to the old, it is mostly memory. The person who is conscious that he has lost the best of his days, the best of his powers, and the best of his friends naturally lives a good deal in the past.

The Art of Being a Good Friend
Hugh Black