The other day, I woke up with a tingle in my skin. I wasn’t real sure why, but it just felt funny. I blamed it on the vertigo.
On the way to work it was raining. Big drops falling from the sky, high wiper weather at times.
With every drop that hit the windshield, I could feel the prickles on my skin.
My nerve endings were on fire. So close to the surface, the slightest movement tingled.
The radio was on the news talk channel.
A high school boy collapses at school and dies a few days later.
A middle school boy collapses and is in critical condition.
Mothers lose sons. Fathers lose their pride and joys. They pick out caskets instead of cleats and pads or birthday presents They sit at bedsides willing their child to wake up.
Cousins and friends and neighbors grieve. Grandparents wonder why it wasn’t them. They would surely trade places in an instant.
Families are forever changed. All that’s left are memories, an empty seat at the table, and a giant hole in the hearts of so many.
Tears filled my eyes and burned as they fell down my cheeks. I turned the station.
All day, my skin tingled.
Late in the day, a Facebook post from my high school said that a girl I went to school with had died.
My heart fluttered and ached. My own realization that tomorrow is not promised was underlined.
Too much loss.
It’s just too much some days.
Some days grief is like nerve endings that feel every whisper of a breeze and every single touch. The contact can be feather-soft, but the lingering sensation it leaves feels endless.
I want to scream for it all to stop. For children to stop being taken from parents. For people not to suffer.
But that’s not the way it works. We’re not promised tomorrow. We’re not even promised five minutes from now. Nobody even promised that our children are ours to keep.
That’s not fair.
For now, I choose to live life out loud. I may not go skydiving or climb Mt. Everest, but I will try my best to live like tomorrow may never come.
I want my days to count.
How will you make every day count?