...my father died.
I still miss him.
I sometimes regret that there were so many things we used to do together that we never did one last time. But I was young then, and my father was a healthy hearty man. We knew he would die sometime, but it seemed to be in some distant, unreal point. We had time before us.
Then cancer happened, and all our time dried up in a twinkling. The hearty man I knew became bed-ridden and sickly. There was no chance for last times. There could be no: "Hey Dad, let's go bowling one more time. Or golfing. Or fishing. Or..." I couldn't even ask him to tell me his stories one more time. Even his tongue fell still. He was in pain, facing his end with a quiet fortitude and dignity I doubt I'll ever be able to muster. All I could do was stay with him, keep him company, pray for him, and watch him go.
I learned a hard lesson about time that way. It is part of the reason why I try and get my mother out once a month and go off and have some fun with her. There will come a time that I don't have her around any more, and I don't want to regret that I let our last chances pass away.