The Days Are Long, but the Years Are Short

“The days are long, but the years are short.” A sign hanging in a home goods store that read this brought me to tears in the days before my grandmother passed away, one week shy of a year ago.

A few weeks ago, I was remembering the night of my brother’s rehearsal dinner. My cousin, Angelica, and I hung close to each other all night, as we typically did, and as I was reminiscing, those words “the days are long, but the years are short,” rang in my ears once again. We were in a car full of people after a night of celebrating, doing all we could to stay awake. Naturally, Jelly curled up in a ball on my lap, and in our true fashion, we whispered random conversation that I’m sure neither of us even remembered the context of the next morning for the entire two-hour car ride. We giggled the whole time. We always did some form of this when we were together. Three weeks later at Christmas, I walked into my grandparent’s house, found my way to the couch she was camped out on, and curled up in her lap as we proceeded to giggle together for hours once again.

This is who we were for each other. A deep breath. A place to just be. A laugh after the heaviness. Safe.

That weekend is the same one that Angelica told me I’d always been her role model. That Christmas would be her last one, and none of us had any clue. Hug your people. Tell them you love them.

Then tell them you love them more.

Today, I wore one of her sweaters. When I was getting ready, I found one of her hairs entangled in the knitting of the sleeve. I thought of how I’d always find those same hairs in my own sweaters for days after she’d curled up in my lap for a three-hour nap at a family gathering. Like I said, we’d do this. Always find our way to one another and laugh so hard over absolute nothingness until one curled into the other’s lap to rest. We’d hardly notice the rest of the room amid our whispering attempts not to disrupt, and then the failure of those attempts would erupt into laughter. I couldn’t tell you what a single one of those conversations was about, but I can say for sure it’s those moments I’ll miss for all my days. And those long, curly, dark-as-night hairs always in my sweaters. Today’s forced the finality over me. That this may be the final one I find.

As my mind ran with this thought of finality and the heaviness that comes with it, rain lightly tapped the skylights in my kitchen. Isn’t it kind that God softens our heaviness sometimes by saying He’s right next to us in the rain?