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Key points
- Sudden loss can highlight life’s fragility and the urgency to connect with loved ones.
- Embracing life’s brevity can prompt deeper connections and gratitude.
- Memories of loss and tragedy show that the future is never guaranteed.
Every January, my elderly father encourages me to reflect on the previous year and make a plan for the year ahead. He can’t help but make it sound as if he expects a full report of my findings, but at 45, I bristle at the notion of being given homework. The truth is I don’t need the prompt because come December, I instinctively sift through my successes and failings, eager to uncover any insight that might help me live the new year better.
This December seemed no different except that my husband and I decided to escape the gray, wintry weather for a week in the Caribbean where I was unexpectedly struck by a wave of grief that forced me to confront one of the most critical questions I could ever ask myself: What is most important to me?
I knew my beloved aunt had been sick for over a year, but the latest update I got from my cousin in mid-November sounded hopeful. Although we lived about a thousand miles apart and had not seen each other in years, our texts, pictures, and phone conversations about mental health, family, and marriage felt as if they made up for the physical distance.
On the second day of our vacation, I learned from my cousin that my aunt was now under hospice care and that if I wanted to send my love and support via voice message, they would play it for her. I stood in the hotel room rereading the text, punched by the realization that my aunt would not be getting better and by the incongruity of receiving such news while applying sunscreen for a day at the beach. I shared the news with my husband while struggling for tiny sips of air. I rushed to collect myself enough to send the voice message. My aunt died two days later.
For the remainder of our vacation, once or twice a day, I would leave my husband to his audiobook and set out for the long stretch of the beach. Walking has always been an integral part of my identity. Back in college, my friends knew to "wear good shoes" because spending time with me usually involved walking. Walking helps me process whatever I am feeling and thinking, and releases some of my anxious energy. I feel most clear-headed about an hour into a walk.
Every walk on the beach began with people watching: a determined runner huffing barefoot on the sand, local vendors selling hats and other trinkets, affectionate couples hugging in the shallows, children laughing and shrieking as the waves flood their castles and trenches.
Soon, my thoughts would turn to my cousins who were experiencing inconsolable grief. I worried about what to say to them since words seemed empty and impotent. Ever since my mother died almost 12 years ago, I’ve felt an urge to protect anyone who has just lost theirs—as if I had unwittingly been made president of “the motherless club” and given the impossible task of orienting new members.
The high tide would occasionally slap my calves and knees, breaking my train of thought and reminding me to move a few steps up the beach. Over the years, my aunt kept inviting me to visit, especially wishing to reinforce the bond I once had with my cousins when we were young children in Bosnia—before the war scattered us all around the world. Looking back, all of my reasons for delaying the visit such as prioritizing other trips in light of limited budget and vacation days seem so paltry. Worst of all was my assumption that there will be plenty of time in the future.
I scolded myself for having been so naive as I pushed into a faster pace: Did the war teach me nothing? I of all people should know that none of us are promised even the next breath, let alone years into the future. I should have known better.
When I was a teenager, my family and I endured nearly four years of siege in Sarajevo, Bosnia. Every New Year’s Eve, the only wish on everyone’s lips was to survive alongside our loved ones and to live in peace. Every night, scared to close my eyes and fall asleep as explosions echoed through my city, I had the same wish.
The war stripped down my wishes to what is simplest and most elemental. Now I realize that among all the dreams and ambitions I have for this year, the one I care about the most is connecting with the loved ones I have not seen in years and making meaningful memories.
The last time I saw my mother, she flew in for a visit and I picked her up at the airport. She was pushing a large cart full of luggage trying to maneuver her way through the crowd. I leapt into her arms, pushing away the thought that she looked older, focusing instead on her beautiful face and the bright red lipstick she must have applied minutes earlier. In all the commotion, her lips grazed my lips for a split second before landing on my cheek.
It astounds me how such a tiny memory of an airport embrace can hold so much meaning and intense emotion for over a decade. I suppose we never really know how indelible any single moment of our life might end up being in the future. That is why, this year, I want to make as many moments of deep connection as I possibly can.
On our vacation, my husband and I woke up most mornings to see the sunrise. Still a little blurry-eyed, we watched the sun break its buttery yolk all over the horizon. We walked hand in hand by the sea while the waves splashed our ankles and licked away the footprints of those who walked ahead of us on the beach. I couldn't help but wonder: How many footprints on this beach had been washed away over the centuries? Is my life but a brief moment between two waves? And how many footprints will I get to make?
At our final sunrise, my husband snapped a picture that somehow captured a tiny sliver of life’s beauty and immensity: As the sea swirls around my ankles and the rising sun warms my face, the sky behind me looks both peaceful and foreboding. In the distance hang curtains of rain—with a rainbow poking through.
