I've been hearing this for years: Every Day is a Gift. Hearing, not always listening. I've been on this earth 64 years and lots of good things have happened to me. And some not so good. But that's life. There are days when I'm full of vim and vigor, springing out of bed and charging into the morning, gulping coffee and patting Harry's wagging behind, dressing and brushing teeth and painting a room or writing. Going after the kitchen ants with vinegar. Tending tomatoes and doing laundry, scrubbing floors, visiting The Sherburne Inn and demanding holes be filled and light fixtures hung. Then there are other days. I drift out of bed and watch some news. Look out the window. Put my feet up. Never start the car. Never hear another voice.
I'm inevitably sorry for those languid days. At night, when I climb back into bed I wish I'd done more. Talked to someone I haven't seen lately. Written something meaningful. Spent a few hours outside among the flowers.
We never know what's coming, do we? One day all is well and the next is rocked by unexpected heartache. We take each other for granted and assume tomorrow we can make the call we didn't make yesterday. I remember when my dad died I was going to call him on Saturday, but I got busy and didn't. On Sunday he was dead. I was never to hear his voice again, the chance to call missed. Hard to recover from those flippant decisions. "I'll call tomorrow," we all say. Another old adage: What if tomorrow never comes? (We hear it, but we don't always listen.)
We're all going to die, eventually. We know that but don't always grasp it. We assume at 20 and 30 and 40 and 50 and even 64 that it won't happen today. We order mattresses and organize books, thinking we'll be around in a week when the mattress arrives or when we find another novel to put on the shelf. That birthday card can wait a few days, after all … the birthday isn't until next week. Then suddenly, startlingly, next week isn't there for someone. The lightning bolt hits and time runs out. Did I say I'm sorry? Did I say I love you? Maybe. We hope so.
My town was rocked by an unexpected death last week. A special young man in his prime. Handsome, kind, gruff on the outside and gentle on the inside like his dad; tender and sweet like his mom. A brother and an uncle, an artist, a joker, a listener, skilled with his hands, skilled with his heart. One day kayaking, days later gone. Not even 30.
A family crushed. A community in tears.
Hearts are with you Vincent and Anna, Josh and Kris and Eddie (Chad), Teresa and Matti and Karen and Julie and Kate and little Bentley, the cousins and uncles and aunts and uncounted friends who cry for you. Darling Jeramie, you touched our lives with your humor and humanity. I hope you knew that.
The last time I saw you, dear Jeramie, you were helping to move a freezer into my basement. I never imagined -- being thirty-some years older than you -- that on a chilly March morning would be the last time I would see your sweet smile. We never know, do we? I will miss you and will always remember your bright eyes. Today, we're all listening: Every day is a gift. With all else that you left with us, maybe most importantly, you left us with that.
