One day, you went out to play with your friends for the last time, and nobody knew it.
Time.
We have a funny relationship with it.
Not funny in an LOL way—funny in the way we assume it will always wait for us.
We don’t notice the endings while we’re living inside them. Moments don’t tap us on the shoulder, asking us to pay attention, warning us that this might be the last time it ever looks like this. Even something as simple as a walk with my wife after dinner, the show we’re binging on Netflix, or a lunch with a friend I only see occasionally can disappear before you realize it.
I took my dad to a college basketball game the other day—giant pretzel, a little popcorn, and a hometown win in double overtime. Boys’ night out. Somewhere in the middle of those two and a half hours, as I watched Dad enjoy the game and give his expert in-game analysis, I found myself measuring time in moments instead of years.
Time feels infinite until you measure it in experiences.
Dad is 84 years old.
How many years do I have left with him? How many moments? How many games? I don’t get to know that number. But I do get the chance to say yes. To grab a couple of tickets to a ballgame. To be there. To treasure our brief time together.
The morning after the game, Dad texted me: “Hey, that was fun. Let’s do it again in a few weeks.”
That made me smile.
One day, we’ll all do ordinary things for the last time. Part of grief is the realization that those things will never happen again. At least not in this life.
Time.
We have a funny relationship with it.
Say yes more often. Get the tickets. Take the trip. Make the call. Memories never made won’t comfort you when time is up.
Measure in times, not years
