The funny thing (hahahaha) about loving someone whose time is limited is that it makes you selfish. It makes you grabby, greedy, appallingly self-centered. Because, let's face it, it's really about you, isn't it? And because it's about you, there is a lot of whining, sometimes using your inside voice, sometimes not.
At night, lying in bed, you think:
I haven't figured out my life yet.
Had children. Bought a house. Landed a career I love. Made peace with myself.
I can't do all the things that will make you proud if you check out so soon.
Will they even mean anything to me after you're gone?
All of a sudden, your own life seems compressed. You remember a recurring anxiety dream you had in college, a mad scramble to write a term paper with an unknown but crushing deadline. The cruel mash-up of paralysis and frenzy feels familiar. Your sense of urgency returns. All of those grand ideas you once had? The ones you shelved somewhere for another time? Well, there is no time. All you have is now and tomorrow, and maybe next month and a few months more. After that, who knows? Better get cracking, sister.
What was that idea again?
You can't even remember.
This will help.
This will inspire. But knowing inspiration is a bare-faced lie you tell yourself to kick shit down the road, you think of this:
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
It is not only your heartfelt prayer for the one you love, it's your call to action.
Keep it close.
Top image here. Middle image by Helen Korpak here via Sabino. Bottom image via Sabino. When Death Comes, by Mary Oliver, from here.
