Maybe the last summer

I was talking to a friend today who has a serious, incurable illness. She has been fighting it for as long as I have known her and does so with a grace that I could only hope to emulate. Not to say there aren't bad times - or more precisely - times that are horrifically worse than others - but throughout it all she has maintained a focus on the here. The now. The possible for the day.

But today, for the first time, she talked about her impatience with others who don't have time to do things that are important to her. Not in a whiny, "I never get my way" way, but in a steady voice that matter-of-factly stated that she was aware that this might be her last summer and she didn't want to spend it mowing the lawn and doing other mundane things. She wanted to eat ice cream and walk on the beach and she didn't want to do it alone.

Yes, she said, she was aware that none of us know when our end will come, but with an illness the size of Texas always hovering nearby it's harder to kid yourself that you are immortal. She doesn't typically fixate on her mortality, but every day brings her closer to it. That conversation was a sobering reminder that "living" - however each of us defines what brings us joy - is the operative part of our life as we walk inevitably to the end of time.