Last October my aunt died at age 87. She was the woman that shared her beloved Ann Arbor Symphony with me for more than 30 years, who took me to see musicals and concerts, even the opera. This past week I learned another woman who mentored me in art and work had died at age 86. I watched her memorial service online and wished I’d had more time with her.

It seems the women older than me, those I looked up to and learned from, are moving on and now, when I look around, I realize I am the older woman.

I was struck by this concept last night before our Community Band spring concert while talking to our first chair clarinet who would be conducting a piece for the very first time in his young life. He was nervous and excited and kind of jumpy. I told him not to worry, that we as a band wouldn’t let him down. He smiled and nodded and skittered back to his seat.

He’s just completed 10th grade. I don’t even remember 10th grade.

Last night as we played Benediction by John Stevens I thought of my aunt and my friend and hoped they were somehow listening. I said a silent thank you to them both.

Later, on the drive home, and after a pounding rainstorm had slicked the roads with a shimmer of water, the brilliant orange sun emerged from the clouds and lit the wet pavement in front of me. For a few minutes the road led directly into the setting sun, a ribbon of rose gold, seeming to lead right off into forever.

It was a perfect ending to a good day, and this older woman from a previous generation knew enough to notice and appreciate it, thanks to all the good mentoring I’ve received.

I guess it’s time to pass it on.