i think we assume that everyone softens as the end draws near. that old age turns people fond and lovable and unthreatening. this happened with my difficult father. his gradual acceptance of the inevitable sweetened him and softened his bristly edges. others i can think of are going to end like this thistle leaf, crisping, curling into themselves, but never dropping their thorns.

thistle leaf in winter

grass lake regional trail, saint paul, minnesota