Not that this is horrific, but I’ve thought about mortality many times throughout my life. The first time I realized I was going to die was when my mom, looking at a kitten, remarked, “Animals are so lucky that they don’t think about dying.” My reply was, “What? I’m going to die?”
The second time I remember thinking about my mortality was when I was about 13 and realized that I’d not live long enough to read all the books in the local library. A few years later, I made my loved-ones promise that if I suddenly died when I was in the middle of a book, they must finish reading it to my corpse.*
A more recent memory of knowledge of my eventual demise was when I understood why I became melancholy in the spring, my favorite season. It was because I only had so many springs left in my life.
*this is no longer required
Cedar Waxwing's 365 
This is touching. I love the idea of your loved ones reading the rest of the book to your corpse. Better watch what you read, though.
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I picture myself purposely starting a huge Victorian, or better yet Edwardian, novel, and breathing my last on page 10! Love your sentiment about spring; I feel something the same as each November arrives, and I see autumn fade.
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