Better to taste it now

Excerpt from an essay by Roger Housden in his book "Seven Sins For A Life Worth Living"

Day by day, tiny specks of us float away. No matter which excercise or diet regiman we follow, no matter which self-help guru we believe in, nothing will dispel the reality that we are not built to last. Death is our supreme limitation, the final proof that perfection was never meant to be part of the human experience. A hundred years from now, all new people. Sooner rather than later, we shall not be here: no eyes, no nose, no ears, no tongue, no mind; no you or me -- gone.

Better to taste it now, this life that we have, than to defer it to some future that may never come.

I've read this advice countlessly, in different forms. But I have to constantly remind myself of its truth. There is no day but today. Carpe diem. When will I learn to wake up to that chorus line? Every time I believe there is time for things I should reconsider. Don't delay that dinner with friends. Don't put work ahead of that sacred time with your husband. Don't scrimp on food or stories for that breakfast with your family. Return every crazy smile that your niece sends your way.

Do we need to remind ourselves to live? We do.

What Ditas Left

Ma. Mercedes Uy Camacho
August 25, 1948 - April 19, 1978

This is my beautiful mother who died at 29. My one regret in life was not having had enough time with her. My sister reminded me of our loss so poignantly when she said, "I wish we had more memories of her so that, at least, we could have conversations with her in our heads."
This picture came as such a gift to us from Mommy's good friend, Tita Cora. Together we once again try to put pieces of her life together in the hope of recapturing even just a spark of her brilliant and passionate presence.

What Ditas Left
by Justine U. Camacho-Tajonera
(Published in the anthology: "Going Home to a Landscape" edited by Marianne Villanueva and Virginia Cerenio, 2003)

My mother left bangles
in her jewelry box,
poems that my father
can no longer find,
paintings of birds breaking
free from cages and
umbrellas catching
raindrops.

She painted me
looking over a butterfly-
sleeve and my brother
in blue and orange
with a look of awe.

My mother left me
a little trail of things:
pictures of her
beautiful, wide-eyed
saying "wow"
over and over,
a gold pendant,
a set of books etched
all over with her analysis
of characters,
bright, bold declarations
as thought I would debate
with her over time.
I recognize my own writing
in her staccato style.

Sometimes when I read
what she scrawled at the
back of her photo album
I cry:
Life is full of sound and
fury, yes.
But full of significance
too. Just you wait and
see, just you wait and
see, just you want and
see

only three
years with
you, Mommy.

I have a hand-
ful of gifts now,
things you never
thought
would mean so much.

You left me
your eyes,
your wonder,
you left me
my name.