I’m still only 17, not 26.
My parents are still in their 50’s, not 60’s.
I don’t have to worry about the way my dad’s feet shuffle as he walks, arthritis coating his joints from decades of providing for my family.
I don’t think I said thank you enough.
I remember my husband’s grandmother dying at 71. I do the math, that gives me under ten years.
I want to burn that thought. Losing my parents before my mid thirties?
Suddenly, I’m jealous I’m not the oldest child. It isn’t fair that my brother will get more time with them, especially because he’s him.
My uncle just died, he was 89. That’s closer to thirty years.
It still doesn’t feel like enough.
I realize that I’m more than likely half way through knowing them. That I will, in all probability, live longer not knowing them than I did knowing them.
How do you lose someone you have known every second of your life? I don’t want to know.
I worry about what they will miss.
Will they get the chance to meet my children? To really get to know them?
Thoughts like these make me wish I had a Time Machine, just to peek. To make sure I savor every piece.
But even then, it wouldn’t have been enough time.
I make peace in having the time.















