Among the many score of floral tributes at my great grandfather’s funeral – he had eight devoted children – was a full-sized rocking chair made entirely of flowers.  Leaning against one arm of the chair, a floral version of his cane.  They were emblematic of the last decade of his life; it was the way we always knew him, saw him.  He was 88 when he died. I often think of his life and his death as I chat with various sandwich-generation friends who are exhausted and defeated by the responsibility they feel for their aging parents. How different are their parents’ last chapters than my great-grandfather’s or even my grandparents’.  Having worked hard all of their lives, they were...