Forty-eight years ago today my grandfather had one day to live. It was a Friday so I expect that he got up, showered, shaved, made the coffee and had breakfast, and went to work like he’d done the previous four days in the week. He probably did a good day’s work that last day; after he died they hired three men to replace him where he worked.
I’m sure he had lunch, though I don’t know if he got a sandwich or if he took a lunch bag. I’ve never thought to ask my mother about that. I know for sure he had dinner with his family because, well, that’s the kind of family it was. I think my grandmother may have been working nights at the GPO then, though again I’m not really sure. It all kind of runs together into one big mushy family story, the details lost to time and telling.
The thing of it is: he had no idea when he got up the morning of November 18, 1960 that it would be his last day just the same as we have no guarantee of our tomorrows. Yet here most of us sit, whiling away time like it’s a renewable resource, like we’re sure that there will be a next month or a next year or even a tomorrow for us.
We are exhorted to carpe diem, to live life to the fullest, to make sure that all of our time is “quality time” yet we’re given no yardstick or guidelines for what that means (if the party people define living life to the fullest then most of us, in truth, are pretty much fucked; if it’s the fundies, well, the same applies) and this huge responsibility: don’t waste time.
Is it any wonder so many of us are uncomfortable in our own skins, cranky and dissatisfied no matter how many creature comforts we have?
1,440 minutes doesn’t seem like a lot of time, does it? If we’re lucky, it’s what we get in a day. If. we’re. lucky.
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