That's It

I specifically remember the priest saying “Sixty is too young to die.”

I was twenty-one, and I nodded along. Sixty years isn’t enough.

She had retirement ahead of her. She deserved to watch her great-nieces and great-nephews grow up. She should have met my son, born nine years after she left.

She introduced me to a book series, but only one of us got to see how it ends. Sometimes that bothers me most of all. If I read aloud, could she hear me?

Going through cancer treatments made her small and fragile. Breakable. I loved her before the diagnosis, but afterwards, she had become precious.

After her death, she became canonized in my mind. It was the only way I knew how to process it. She was greater than a mere person. She was a symbol of generosity, kindness, and femininity. She was more than just sixty years. I remember thinking “That’s it? That’s all she gets?” There must be more.

I’m thirty-two now and I know she was a person—special to me, but just a person to the world. She taught me to make my life beautiful now because later might not happen. Her sixty years were beautiful albeit so short.

Life is beautiful because it is short. Even 100 years doesn’t seem like enough time to me. Several dear decades and that’s it. That’s all we get. It is by remembering this that we feel appreciation for all life gives us.

Sunrises, bird songs, museums, and coffeeshops. Dogs, cats, ice cream, and books. Friends, family, and laughing until your cheeks hurt. That’s it. That’s all we get. I see now how lucky we are.