Our time is limited here

Several years ago I worked for an area retailer dependent on tourist trade, which was seeing a long, slow decline. One early spring afternoon, I stood in a corner of the store, the only available work space, with the parts of a large, double-sided display cabinet spread around me. After spending the better part of two hours assembling it, I realized I’d reversed one of the panels early on, which would require taking some of it apart and starting over. As I silently cursed my carelessness, my cell phone rang. It was the store manager.

“Could you please come to my office right away?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said. “But I’m not finished with this cabinet, and I’m concerned a customer might trip over the pieces.”

“Never mind that. Just drop what you’re doing and come down here.”

The ice ball in the pit of my stomach began right away, as this was very much out of the ordinary. Had I taken too long with this minor project? Was I in trouble?

Arriving at her office in the next building, my worst fears were confirmed, as the company HR director sat in the small room beside her. Business was down, the boss explained with a sorrowful look.

“You know we love you here, but we have to lay you off. It’s nothing you’ve done, but we just have no choice.”

I swallowed my despair at the prospect of going from a paycheck-to-paycheck life to an abysmal scramble for money and said, “I understand. Just let me finish up this cabinet.”

“No, just gather up your personal things and go home. It’s company policy.” The HR lady, as cold as such people are often portrayed, sat in steely, tight-lipped silence. The fancy, long, unsold Amish clock on the shelf ticked away a few moments. I sucked in a breath and tried again.

“I get it, but you see I’ve just realized I put the cabinet I am working on together incorrectly. No one will be able to figure out the mistake but me. I’ll clock out first if you like, but you may have to scrap it if I don’t.”

She cut me off again, more sternly. “No, just get your coat and go.”

I shook their hands, went to the nearby supply room for my coat and a few personal tools and got into my car. I had to call my immediate supervisor and tell her why I’d left a pile of laminate boards and screws on the floor of the retail space.

Even before I got home, it struck me: This must be what it is like to die suddenly. One moment you’re going about your life, and the next, completely unexpectedly, you’re tapped out of it for keeps, left protesting about the things you’d left undone and unsaid. I resolved to remember the lesson as I pulled into the driveway, fearing impending homelessness.

My sister passed away very suddenly last week, the sister I’ve mentioned to you often, the sister with whom I’ve had dinner most Sunday afternoons for the last 12 years, the one I spoke with nearly every day, the sister who was the center of her family, the trusted confidant, the best possible listener.

There’s immense sadness and grief of course. She was the first of our generation to go and kept our long-gone relatives alive for us in the unbroken traditions of our childhood. Many of my memories of her will always be centered around food and cooking, which we all loved. I’m reminded again how food is at the center of our experiences and how shared meals bring us together across generations and time, even when we’re not here anymore.

Perhaps for that reason, for the first time at such a loss, there is joy too. Judy made sure to be present, to make sure the people around her knew how much they mattered to her, how loved they were and how interested she was in their lives. I doubt there was much protest at the end. Her cabinets were all assembled correctly and well. There was nothing left unsaid.

She will be desperately missed, but I feel a lot of pride, too, in a sister who knew what was important and what wasn’t and shared the secret with us.

I share this with you as a way of reminding you again of the importance of gathering and sharing your life and stories with those you love. Our time, though we may choose not to believe it despite millions of years of unwavering evidence, is limited. Dig out your grandma’s meatloaf recipe and call the family together to try to replicate it. There is no time to dawdle.