One day a woman's husband died, and on that clear, cold morning, in the warmth of their bedroom, the wife was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there isn't any "more."
No more hugs, no more special moments to celebrate together, no more phone calls just to chat, no more "just one minute."
Sometimes, what we care about the most gets all used up and goes away, never to return before we can say “good-bye” or say "I love you."
So while we have it, we must love it, care for it, fix it when it's broken, and heal it when it's sick.
This is true for marriage.....And old cars... And children with bad report cards, and dogs with bad hips, and aging parents and grandparents. We keep them because they are worth it, because we are worth it.
Some things we keep -- like a best friend who moved away or a sister-in-law after divorce. There are just some things that make us happy, no matter what.
Life is important, like people we know who are special.. And so, we keep them close!
I received this from someone who thought I was a 'keeper.' Then I sent it to the people I think of in the same way. Now it's your turn to send this to all those people who are "keepers" in your life, including the person who sent it, if you feel that way. Suppose one morning you never wake up, do all your friends know you love them?
Let every one of your friends know you love them. Even if you think they don't love you back. And just in case I'm gone tomorrow:
I LOVE YA!!!
Live today because tomorrow is not promised.
My Aunt Aida has been gone since May of this year. And while I had only a few precious moments with her in my lifetime, enough to recall on two hands, I still grieve for her. I remember her in my childhood before she and my uncle moved from the islands, and when I visited her, my uncle, and my cousins on the mainland. The last time I saw her was a few years ago when my family and I took a trip to Georgia. The woman of my childhood memories was even more fantastic now that I am an adult and can fully appreciate her. The memories of her on that Georgia visit stand out most because they are most recent and because it showed me what I had been missing in those years between visits. And now she's gone. There is no "more."
For a long time, there's been a disconnect in my lifeline to family. It's not that I didn't care or didn't know they were out there. Mostly, the convenience of technology has made it so much easier to stay connected.
I cannot fathom the void left in my aunt's absence, yet I still feel it. It is there. The absence of "more" despite the lingering existence of desire for that specific "more." I guess that's what grief is.