They warned us about it – our permanent record – nearly from day one at Washington Elementary. We laughed. We were too young for anything to last beyond recess. I’m not even sure if there was such a thing, for school that is. But they weren’t wrong though. Things did last. Good and Bad. The things we did or didn’t do. The things we said, or didn’t say. Every day. They all mattered. Still do. Permanently.

Maybe we have this false security of time. They give it to us at the airport. A million things can go wrong pre-flight. Mistakes can be made. Time wasted. You can sit on the tarmac, and the pilot will always come on the speaker and say, “Don’t worry, we’ll make it up in the air.” And they often do. Would that it were so on land. With each other. But it isn’t. Moments missed are just gone. I don’t mean to say that in a doom-filled way, but more of a reminder. I need, want, to keep myself aware of the time. Each precious moment. It’s easy to fill them with things. With stuff. But I want my time filled with experience. With meaning.

Cindy Lanigan told me in the first grade that friends don’t let their friends be lonesome. She let my mom come pick me up from my first sleep over. She didn’t tell anyone. That has stayed with me. Permanently. When my parents divorced, Colleen Abrahamson cried with me in the back seat of our volleyball bus. Moments. In the time. I have a million of them. And I am grateful for each one.

We are not planes. We have to make the most of right here. Right now. This is our moment. I’m not going to miss it.