This game we call life

Five days ago, while holding an umbrella over an exhausted filmmaker in a gas station parking lot on a misty evening, I received a phone call; Jim Watkins had died. He had been fighting cancer for two years, and on that day he finally let go. Besides the fact that I had grown up running track and cross-country with his kids, for a town where all there is is high school sports, a coach and athletic director has quite and influence on many people, and Jim Watkins was no exception (if memory serves he was always somewhat perturbed by the fact that I, as one of the tallest girls in the school, did not play basketball; fortunately I made up for it by running--that is to say, coordinating-- the occasional track meet for him after I graduated).

After I hung up the phone, I couldn't help selfishly wondering if the funerals will ever stop. Of course the answer is no. Death is part of life. If you get to know people, care about them, let them be part of your life, there will inevitably be funerals to attend. Hopefully there will be enough moments between now and then to laugh, cry, love, live--live a life full of rich experiences--so that when we end up at these ceremonies (either as a mourner or the guest of honor) we can say we are there without regret.

And maybe that's why I was able to hang up the phone continue with my work without too much notice by others. While I am sad for his family, I have no regrets, nothing I wish I had done or said for him, and I don't think that Jim had any regrets either. Yes, he died too young. Yes, there are things in his family's life that he will not be there physically to see. But for the time he did have, Jim Watkins lived.

Take care Jim.