I remember those days from my childhood—long summer afternoons when my dad would take me to the local park. He’d sit on a bench, engrossed in the day’s newspaper, while I played with our puppy. I’d throw a ball, and our pup would scamper off with delight, tail wagging furiously, returning the ball with unwavering enthusiasm. Sometimes I’d just stand there, quietly marveling at the newly blossoming flowers along the park’s borders. I’d touch the leaves, watch a lone ant finding its way across the grass, and wonder: Do ants see each other from far away? Do they talk? What if one loses its way? Meanwhile, my puppy would poke my leg, urging me to throw the ball again. I’d hurl it farther, and watch how the last rays of the setting sun cast the ant’s shadow on a leaf—fragile, yet so full of life.
And then would come the saddest part—my father’s gentle voice calling, “Boy—let’s go. It’s getting dark.” He’d be standing behind me, ready to head home. But we’d come back again tomorrow, I always thought. Back then, there was always another day.
Today, my relationship with death reminds me of those afternoons in the park. I’m not old—I’m in my thirties, healthy enough. But I constantly feel death’s presence, like a figure reading the daily chronicle from a distant bench, keeping an eye on me. One day, death will stand up, fold its paper, and say, “Boy, let’s go. Time’s up.” Except there will be no home to go to, no next day to look forward to. I will simply cease to exist, leaving only a memory in the minds of those who love me. And those memories, too, will vanish when their time comes.
Strangely, I don’t find this notion completely frightening. If anything, it reminds me how precious time is. It underscores the importance of my existence—at least to me. Each thing I do feels unique, not because I haven’t done it before, but because I might never get another chance. If not tomorrow, then maybe 40 years from now, I won’t be here. The sun will still rise, the sky will still dress itself in majestic colors—only I won’t be there to witness it.
I often visit a small park near where I live in New York. I’m here on a postdoc, and I’ll be gone in a year. I might never sit on that particular bench again, gazing beyond the Hudson River. How many people have sailed down this river over the years? Its banks have changed drastically—where once deep forests grew, now towering skyscrapers dominate the skyline. After I’m gone, I wonder how much further it will all change.
The other day, my phone rang. It was my mother. In that moment, I started thinking about how much time we’ve spent together. Eighteen years at home—if I factor in school hours, maybe 14 or 15 real years of bonding. Now, I see her once a year for a few weeks. Maybe after 30 more years, she won’t be here. I do a quick calculation—2 weeks a year times 30 years is about one year total. That might be all the time left I truly get to spend with her. Suddenly, every phone call feels sacred, every word we exchange an irreplaceable treasure.
I sometimes imagine who’ll be at my side when I grow old. Maybe I’ll be in a hospital, and I’ll sense Death folding his newspaper, preparing to leave. I picture my wife, her hair gone gray, wrinkles lining her kind face, but her eyes still filled with deep affection—my final companion. I no longer see her as the beautiful young woman in her thirties; I see her as the one who will hold my hand at the end. Realizing this makes every moment with her feel incredibly special.
Then, an email arrives—our recently submitted paper is under review. It’s a prestigious journal, and acceptance would be a nice feather in my cap. I smirk: Does it really matter? A respectable publication could boost my career, yes, but when death is quietly observing me, life seems so short. There are so many places to visit, so many people to befriend, so many fleeting wonders to behold. In the face of mortality, career milestones seem mundane.
But I also realize this small contribution to knowledge might live on after I’m gone. Someone, somewhere, might build on this research. It’s comforting to think that the sparks we ignite can outlive us, lighting a path for others.
In the end, the constant reminder of death bathes every moment in a golden light. Everything seems special—every laugh with a friend, every breath of fresh air, every quiet evening alone with my thoughts. Like a tourist in an unfamiliar city, I wander this Earth, trying to make the most of my short existence, until one day I’ll hear that voice: “Boy, let’s go. Time’s up.”
Some people spend their lives ignoring death until it surprises them in old age or illness. Others, like me, keep it close, allowing it to remind us how valuable our time is. Whichever path you take, may it lead you to treasure the moments you have—and the loved ones who share them with you.
