Cherish each day as a true gift

Time flies.

Life is short.

No one lives forever.

These are all clichés we like to toss around. And on some level, some deep and almost never examined level, we know they’re true. But that’s not really how we act. Instead, for the most part, we carry on like we’re immortal.

I know I’m guilty.

The sun rises just as I expect it to every morning, and I get out of bed and march into the world as happy or sad or angry as anyone who is going to live forever has a right to be.

The sun sets, and I tuck back into my comfortable bed, forgetting to be grateful for the day I just had.

I’m in good company.

Most of us go through our lives holding onto old hurts and grudges, nursing old wounds. We lose precious, irreplaceable hours obsessing over what might have been or what should have been. Or what we wish would come to pass. We procrastinate. We worry over decisions and put off opportunities like we’ve got all the time in the world.

We become blind to the people, places and things we love. We fight change. We waste our energy on things that don’t really matter until something happens; until a phone call brings bad news. That shakes us up.

Last Sunday, I read the short obituary of the woman from a little deli near my office. A place I like to go for lunch several times a month. The last time I dropped by, a note on the door said the woman had died. That shook me.

I liked the woman at the deli. She knew my name and what kind of sandwich I would order – the veggie sandwich on dark rye – and she always smiled. She liked to tease and once slipped me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as a joke.

She took an interest in my work, the same way she connected with so many of the customers who came in.

I know there must have been days when she was tired, when she didn’t want to see another person walk through the door, days when she thought she would scream if she had to pick up another slice of bread, but she never failed to take a minute to chat. And she always smiled.

I don’t know the details of what happened.

The obituary told me when she was born and that she was loved. And it said she had died unexpectedly. It’s all very sad.

I’m sure that, like the rest of us, she must have had so many plans for a long life that stretched far out into the future. She had a daughter and a popular business. She had hopes and dreams and goals.

She just didn’t have enough time.

I’m going to miss the woman at the deli. It makes me sad to think I won’t see her again. But thinking about her has reminded me that nothing, not even my next breath, is a sure thing, that every minute of every day is a gift.

And once it’s gone, it’s gone.