| Sunny Side Up Jan 1, 2003 � 2002, Kathleen Gibson Every breath is a gift My friend Brenda didn�t have the pleasure of greeting this New Year. She died in a house fire just before Christmas. One of the firefighters said the conflagration was so intense she could have taken no more than four breaths. Four. At most. Her death has made me reflect on my life. It�s full of unfinished projects�waiting for the tomorrows I�m always certain of. As though they were signed, sealed, and delivered. I sifted through my drop-leaf desk last night, looking for something. Stacks of papers are in there, waiting for sorting�pitch, pay, store, send. The coffee table is laden with magazines I�ll read�one day. I have boxes of photos documenting the years and paths our family has taken�still in their developing envelopes, waiting to be catalogued. An old rocking chair in the garage needs glue and paint. There�s more. A manuscript, half done. Volumes, unread. A bag of corn husk angels, half made. Shelves of painting supplies, begging for time. A cupboard full of music, silent. Suitcases of the children�s memories, waiting for scrapbooks. What would be left, I ask myself. If my unfinished projects were ashes tomorrow, and me too, what substance would rise above the swaying tendrils of smoke to cling to those I left behind? What remains that death could not kill? Hopefully, there�d be the memories of family and friends who knew I loved them, because I showed it. A few small crannies in the world made brighter because of a well-chosen word or action that formed in God�s heart and touched someone through me. Stuff planted in people�s lives. Fresh hope. Prayers. A little beauty. But there�d be other things rising above the ashes. Mistakes, for one. Things I�ve said and done�or not. A brother to whom I never said, �I wish we were closer. I need you.� A much loved son so different from me I despaired of understanding him and stopped trying. A husband I didn�t cherish half enough, and to whom I�ve never said �I don�t deserve you, but thank you for loving me.� And plenty besides. Brenda�s death helped me remember that my most important unfinished projects aren�t the things that need painting or organizing, mending or decorating. They don�t lurk in garages or on shelves making me feel guilty when I walk past. Instead, they linger in the quietly beating hearts of people I love. In my own, too. So just in case the finish line catches me off guard, I begin a few of my most important unfinished projects this moment. Little bro, my life is incomplete without you. Son of my heart, I haven�t worked hard enough to understand you and I�m sorry for the pain that�s caused. Darlin� husband, I don�t deserve you, but thank you for loving me anyway. We�re not guaranteed a year. Not even a day. Each moment is a gift. Use your breaths, people. You may only have four left. If these words inspired thoughts of your own, email [email protected] |