WHEN TOMORROW NEVER COMES

It was one of those wonderful winter days. The night before, a fresh snow had fallen. The branches of the evergreen trees were laden with fluffy white gowns of white. Th sun shone brightly. The world was at peace.


I was shoveling the light, fluffy snow from the driveway when I had an overwhelming urge to visit Uncle Lawrence. He was my favorite uncle on my paternal side of the family and I loved to sit in the big easy chair in the living room of his cozy cottage and listen to him tell tales of life's adventures. He had lived through two World Wars and The Great Depression. His stories enthralled me.


When my husband came home from work, I asked him if we could go to visit Uncle Lawrence. Tired from a long work week of physical labor, he asked me if it could wait until the next afternoon, which was Saturday. I assured him it could.


The next morning, the shrill ring of the telephone jarrred us from sleep. When I heard my mother's voice on the line, I knew she'd been crying. Dread crept over me.


"What's wrong," I asked.


"It's Uncle Lawrence. He collapsed early this morning and died on his way to the hospital."


Sorrow enveloped me. I let the telephone receiver clatter back onto its cradle. I wept. Then, I became angry. Angry with myself. Why had I not listened to the silent voice of the day before? I had missed the opportunity to say good bye to my beloved uncle.


August first of the next year, Canada's Civic Holiday, was a hot, sweltering summer day. That day, I heard the silent voice again. Phone Uncle Willie, it seemed to say. I knew my uncle often worked seven days a week. He would be spending the holiday with his wife and three young boys. I didn't want to interfere with quality family time, so once again I ignored the voice. The next afternoon the news came. Uncle Willie had been involved in a car/truck accident. His injuries had been fatal.


Again I was angry with myself. Again I questioned how I could have been so irresponsible? Again I had missed an opportunity to say good bye. For years I carried the guilt of that day with me.


My first husband and I were childhood sweethearts. We had been inseparable since we were in third grade. He was not only my husband, but also my best friend.


December 31, 1977, is etched forever in my memory. My husband was a truck driver and was often away from home for extended periods. I was glad that he was home for a week over the New Year.


In the early morning hours of December 30, his employer phoned and asked him to pick up a load in Toronto and deliver it to Buffalo. He agreed. I was furious. This was the first time he'd had a long weekend in months.


Though we didn't often quarrel, that day we had a full-fledged fight. I was angry that he would chose to give up time with our infant daughter and I in order to work. He had been in the States over Christmas and it had been a lonely time for me. Frustrated, he excused his actions by saying we needed the money. I tried to make him understand that the money didn't matter. He went anyway.


For the first time in our lives, we went our separate ways without embracing and exchanging words of love. When he returned home late that evening, I didn't speak to him. I went into our bedroom and slammed the door behind me. Later, when he came to bed, I decided to teach him a lesson. I pretended to be asleep, though I had the distinct urge to makeup. We brought in the New Year in complete silence.


In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke to find my husband sitting on the edge of the bed, gasping and holding his chest. Terror coursed through me.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
He shook his head and murmured something I couldn't understand. I threw back the blankets and started around the bed. Before I could reach him, he stiffened, stood, screamed in pain and started for the living room. Then, he fell.


I ran to the phone. There was no 911 in those days. I phoned the ambulance and was assured it was on its way. The next few hours are still a blur, even after all these years. My beloved husband and best friend was dead.


Three days later, I stood in the cold, drizzling rain and laid a red rose on my husband's coffin as it was lowered into the ground. Once again I had shrugged off that silent voice, opting to makeup tomorrow. Well, for us, tomorrow never came.


Another hot, sultry August day. My daughter and I were at my father's. He had angina. That particular day he was wheezing a lot. I asked him if he was ok. He assured me he was.


Dad had never been one to openly demonstrate affection, so we never hugged, kissed or made a big deal of farewells. There would always be tomorrow.


As my daughter and I stepped out the door, I had the overwhelming urge to kiss my father. That silent voice was speaking to me once again. I went back into the house, hugged Dad and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
"I love you," I told him.
"Love you too, Daughter," he answered. "I'll be seeing you."
At eleven o'clock that evening, Mom called. Dad had passed away.


For years I grieved my father's passing. Even after nineteen years, there are many days when I still miss him. I look back on that night often and am thankful that I heeded that silent voice. Tomorrow never came but I had taken advantage of the opportunity to say good bye. And in his own way, Dad said good bye to me as well.


Now, whenever I hear that silent voice urging me to do something, I act on it promptly. Never again will I count on tomorrow, for there are many times when tomorrow never comes.


Copyright © 2000 by
Mary M. Alward
All rights reserved.






Heartfelt thanks to my dear friend Sunny for creating these graphics exclusively for this page.
Sunny, I will always remember this lovely gesture. You are a dear friend.

Music playing;
If Tomorrow Never Comes
Copyright © Garth Brooks