I’ve been thinking a lot lately about an older person in my family, a remarkable woman. I feel guilt for not making more time to spend with her because, as they say, she won’t be around forever.
I’ve been thinking about why I feel guilty – familial obligation? No, it’s not that. It’s that I’m missing out on some finite time, time that I won’t be able to spend with her . . . “when I have time.”
I’ve been thinking about why I adore her so much, why I think I should be hoarding time with her, why I’ll weep when she goes.
I’ve been thinking about the shine in her eyes when she sees my family, the hearty laugh, the love of books we bonded over, the instant embrace into her family when I joined the club.
I’ve been thinking about how it must feel to be near the end of your life and knowing, to the bottom of your soul, that you did this thing well. You lived every moment. You loved deeply. You forgave. You laughed. You moved on.
I’ve been thinking about how I’ll want to be remembered when I pass on.
And it’s just like that.