On Old Age and Dying

I read an Onion article today about a 38-year old man. 38's the kind of age that, when you're growing up, you think you'll never be. It's the kind of age where, probably no matter how old I am, I'll always think I'll never be. Even when I'm 42, or 69, or 107. Kinda like how I still have out-of-body moments when I read about famous people being 22 or 23, and for a brief second I think, "Wow, maybe I'll be famous by the time I'm 23." And then I realize...

26.

And then this happened: in ten years, I'll probably be married to a 38 year-old. And in twelve, I'll be 38 myself.

And then I realized that my parents probably only have 20 years left to live at all.

(Cue strains of Five for Fighting's 100 Years.)

Memento mori. They're gonna be the death of me.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to the honey-voiced boy about the sadness that life is enshrouded in. The kind you tap into when a warm wind starts up on a dark spring night. The kind you feel when you see how quickly the days evaporate before you, how temporary this current state is, how all these things we take for granted will, in the blink of an eye it seems, change. The kind of sadness that comes when you see goodness all around you and wonder if you've given it all enough of yourself.

In two months time, I will have left this Utah home. I maybe might come back for good someday, but I also maybe might not. And once I've left, my sister will leave too, and then my brother&wife, possibly for good. The girls will grow up. My parents will age. And someday we'll all move away to different places and different lives.

This makes me cry.

I love everything about my life right now. Everything. Nothing is as sweet as what inevitably must change, and nothing is so lovable as that which you can lose.

In fact, I think I love most those things that I count on losing.

I only have this one little life.
Let me love.