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I retired two years ago when Sarah, my first and only wife, died. Cassie, our daughter, won't use that verb; she says "passed."
Sarah had been after me for years to hang up my baton. Travel or not travel-she didn't care so long as we'd be together. Now I've got the time but not Sarah.
Why did her dying provoke me to retire? In order that I could die a little too? To let her have her way, even belatedly and uselessly? Because I couldn't go on doing what kept me from her without her? Frankly, I'm not certain. I actually retired on an impulse. There I was on the phone with Miles Cotter, our mild-mannered, omni-competent orchestra manager, about arranging for a children's choir for the Mahler Eighth when I found myself saying "Miles, time to start looking for a new music director." I didn't decide, but something in me did.
