Summarized from Stitched Soul by Ryan Polly
I have no memory of that Tuesday morning. I was two years old when my father kissed my mother goodbye and walked out our front door for the last time. I can’t tell you what he smelled like, the sound of his voice, or how his hands felt. Those memories don’t exist for me.
But I remember my mother’s cries. And my brother’s terror. My earliest memory isn’t of my father at all. It’s of what happened after. We drove past the accident on the way to school. Dad’s Dodge Colt crumpled into twisted metal on the side of a motor home. Mom dropped my brother off, then went back to discover the love of her life was gone. Forty-six years old. No warning. No goodbye.
Sometimes I catch myself living in the “someday” attic, that mental space where everything important gets stored for later. I’ll call them tomorrow. I’ll start that project next month. I’ll say I’m sorry when the time is right. Like time is a renewable resource I can regenerate. Dad didn’t know he had minutes left in that Dodge Colt, probably humming along to the radio. I’ve already lived longer than he had a chance to. Maybe the point isn’t to live every day like it’s your last. Maybe the point is to live every day like it’s the only chance you get to be you. Because it might be.
