My friend E. is slipping away. Physically still strong, but getting tottery – her steps uncertain, her humor hiding forgetfulness. She writes things down. But she knows she’ll forget to look at the list, or tuck it into a pocket and never think of it again.

She’s turning 84. She forgets to eat. She’s so happy to see everyone, but forgets they’re coming and is always surprised when people show up.

She used to be strong. At 82, she was still vacuuming and mopping the floor of her 3-story, circa-1700 barn. She’s lived on and managed and loved 100 acres on the Maine coast.

There are so many things she still cares about. She loves the deer who slip out of the woods at night to nibble clover in the big field near the house, and who aren’t even bothered by the barking dog; they know it can’t reach them through the fence.

E. loves the tall and wide hydrangea bush that blushes, rose and ivory, in mid-summer. And the Wolf River apples from old trees that are gnarled and bent and still produce huge fruit she turns into pie every year. And she loves the fields when the hay flowers and eagles circle overhead and the porcupines lumber down the road in the near-dark. She loves the spring frogs who call up from the pond, and whose song seeps through her bedroom window.

And she loves the house. She’s lived out 60 years in that one place. Collected tiny wonderful things to fill it up, every bit cherished and dusted and arranged, just so. She’s paid attention to the details.

She loved Rolf, her husband of 60 + years, who went through his own dwindling and confused times, before he faded away. That was 18 years ago, E. says. She remembers that.

And she loved Bill, the neighborhood farmer who worked her fields. They shared a familiar land and its earthy work. But he did his own sudden and sad slipping away last year. E thinks about him everyday.

She’s been a gentle soul, sometimes to her own detriment. It takes her a long while to speak up if something bothers her, and when she does, it’s hard to be direct. But she’s learned. And even in the clatter of louder voices, she keeps trying to be heard.

It’s more important now, when other people are making decisions about her life. But she still errs on the side of kindness. It’s part of who she’s always been – thoughtful, choosing the gentler way.

She has filled up her life with tiny joys, with attention and small beloved things. She’s been a testament to love. I don’t think that will change. And wouldn’t that be a wondrous thing to say about ourselves, in the end? That we were a testament to love?