I didn’t really know what death meant until I lost someone close to me. Before that, it was always something that happened to other people, in other places, at a distance that was too far from my reach, too far to get me. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t come to haunt me when my aunt was stripped from me.

We spend much of our days postponing what matters: calls meant to return, words we intend to say, changes we promise we’ll make “someday.” Death does not recognize that word. It arrives without readiness, reminding us that time isn’t what we’ve made it to be. 

Grief doesn’t organize itself into lessons. Some days it’s quiet, other days it catches you off guard over something small. 

While looking through my parents’ wedding album, I stumble upon a glowing figure: a blinding smile, a warm aura, a beautiful face, and loving gestures. A smile slides onto my face before a tear trickles down my cheek. 

Instead of reminiscing on the multitude of lessons and memories I’ve shared with my aunt, an anger erupts within me. Why didn’t I go to the hospital to see her for the final time? Why didn’t I call her more often? Why did I not tell her that I loved her more? Why. It is these questions that reveal to me how much I failed her. 

I live with the guilt of not having done enough for her while she was battling cancer. I live with the guilt of wearing the jewelry that once caressed her wrists and neck. I live with the guilt of wearing the shoes that once hugged her feet. 

To say that I don’t look back in anguish anymore would be a complete lie. However, it changed how I see things. I’ve started to notice how I’ve assumed there would always be more time. Because of this, I’ve started saying things sooner. Reaching out more quickly. Calling my grandparents weekly. Hugging my friends a little tighter. Telling my parents that I love them. Giving myself grace.  

Death doesn’t offer instructions. It doesn’t resolve anything neatly. But it does leave behind a constant restraint that’s hard to ignore once you’ve seen it clearly: there is an endpoint. And everything before it is where the choices are.