I sometimes find myself wondering what my final words might be. If I were granted one clear moment at the end of my life, a moment to offer something distilled from everything I’ve lived, then what might that be?
I often think back to my dad’s last days. Within a single day of him falling ill, his wife, his children, and his grandchildren somehow found their way to his bedside. It felt like a small miracle, because this was the early days of Covid, when interstate travel was tight and uncertain. And yet, there we all were, gathered around him.
My father then reached for my mother’s hand, looked into her eyes, and said, “Thanks for a wonderful life.” Shortly after, he died.
The longer I sit with that moment, the deeper it sinks in. Just a simple, unadorned truth offered to the person he loved most. At the very end, when all the distractions fall away and nothing unnecessary remains, perhaps that’s when we see most clearly what is real, what is most precious, and what has actually mattered.
What strikes me is that I don’t remember him ever saying those words to her during the ordinary rhythm of life. Not because he didn’t feel it, but because everyday living has a way of burying what is most valuable beneath busyness and noise.
So rather than waiting for my final breath to say what is most real and true, maybe I can make a practice of acknowledging the people I love now, openly & regularly, while I still can.
I wonder what our world might become if we could all give and receive in this way?