"The Trouble is, You Think You Have Time."

On the morning of April 18th as I left the house to go to work I could feel the warmth of the sun soaking my bones.  While David worked in the yard, he looked over his shoulder, said a casual, "see you later," and returned to the lawn.  I placed my hands on his face, looked into his eyes, said, "I love you," and gently kissed him before heading to Denver.  With the windows down and the wind moving through my hair, I felt the care-free weightlessness that only comes with crisp mornings and blossoming trees. That afternoon sitting with a student in my office, David's name appeared as an incoming call on my phone.  From somewhere deep within a knowing intuition compelled me to text him, when I would have otherwise waited until after my meeting.  "I'm with a student, are you OK?" David immediately called me again, from the back of an ambulance.  He totaled his car.  Before I could process what happened, I was in the emergency room with him, glass embedded in his face, burns on his forehead, side, and chest, and a blood-soaked shirt.  My stomach became a hollow trunk, trying to steady my otherwise weak body. It wasn't until I felt his hand in mine that I trusted his breath.  When we left the hospital I couldn't bare to leave David's side because I was afraid he would suddenly disappear. 

I made a commitment long ago not to take time for granted.  I decided I would both celebrate and honor the people I love, just in case I don't get the chance to see them again; so that morning I made sure to look David in the eyes and kiss him before leaving.  But standing with my toes curled on the edge between life and death with its bright red fragility saturating the moment, I realized no matter how hard I try I can't prepare for the possibility of losing someone.  Fortunately we left the hospital simply feeling fractured and therefore blessed with the gift of time to love more deeply, to be more forgiving, and with an acute awareness of what really matters.  But sometimes these moments slip through our fingers before we realize we ever let go.

In January after receiving a text about the possibility of seeing a friend I hadn't seen in a long time, that same intuition lead me to a google search where I found a news story about her battle with pancreatic cancer.  I was stunned that someone I cared about, someone so vibrant, could be fighting for her life and I didn't know.  How is it possible that much time had passed between us.  I began texting her and sending her cards, but none of it filled the infinite hole circling inside me, left by lost time.  On her good days she was optimistic and full of life.  On her bad days she was honest and her honesty pierced my skin. After being out of touch for so long I didn't know if I had the right to ask for her time when she had so little left to give, instead I loved her from a distance.  When she stopped texting I knew her silence was a precursor, and when the silence was deafening, I knew she was gone.  I think about the last time I saw her smile.  If I had known it was going to be the last time, I would have never looked away because just maybe we'd be frozen in that moment and she'd still be here with us.

photo credit: Celena Nuanes

The weight of the sorrow I feel heavily fills my hollow trunk as I am trying to reconcile how I lost track of time while I was busy being in the moment.  I am doing my best to let the sadness pass because I can't stand to disgrace her by spending precious time consumed with regret. She fought so hard to live and love, how dare I do anything else?  Jen's last words to me were, "Thank u my friend."  If she could find the strength to express gratitude while on borrowed time, I owe it to her to do the same.  I plan to dedicate my life to finding joy, not just when it's easy, standing beneath red canyon walls taking in the smells of desert sage, or on top of the jagged ridges of towering giants, but also when I'm not feeling well or when I'm faced with small inconveniences that alter my day.  I will love loudly and live fully because I have learned that being broken wide open from the pain of losing someone is far greater than the risk of being vulnerable.  Jen shined so brightly and I intend to do my part so make sure the world still sees her light.

photo credit: Celena Nuanes