Troy P Zehnder

I catch myself staring at her again. She notices.

“What?” she asks, “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing,” I say, but it’s not nothing. It’s everything.

I’m memorizing every detail—how the soft glow of the light catches the curve of her cheek, the way her lips part just slightly before she speaks, the tiny crinkle near her left eye when she’s amused. The way her hair lays across her face. The twinkle in her eye just before she says something that is important to her. The way her shirt is hanging off her shoulder, and the curves of her form. I don’t just see her; I absorb her. Because what if today was the last day?

We walk through life as if we have an endless supply of moments, as if tomorrow is a given. But the truth is, the next minute is not guaranteed. If this was the last time I could hear her voice, I would listen more intently. If this was the last time I could hold her, I would pull her closer and never let go. If this was the last time I could share my feelings, I would tell her I love her unconditionally.

I think about times I may have rushed through a conversation, half-listened while my mind wandered elsewhere, took a moment for granted because I assumed there would always be another. But what if I lived as if there wasn’t?

Would I linger a little longer in the embrace of a loved one? Would I laugh harder, love deeper, speak softer? Would I stop saving the good wine for a special occasion and open it just because? 

Maybe the real tragedy is not that time is fleeting but that we act as if it’s infinite.

So today, I will hold her hand like it’s the last time. I will kiss her like I may never get the chance again. I will tell her again that I love her. I will live as if this moment is the only one I’m promised—because, in reality, it is.

And if I wake up tomorrow and find I have another chance, I will do it all over again.