What Matters Most

“Love and Death are the great gifts that are given to us; mostly they are passed on unopened.” Ranier Maria Rilke

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been aware of the preciousness of life. I was a keen observer as a child, noticing details that went unchecked by those around me — expressions, tones of voices, feelings underneath the words, what was not being said. My memories are framed in snapshot moments — scenes so real they are complete, stand-alone stories in themselves. How I remember them is my perspective, my truth.

But here’s what I’ve discovered: though the content of each memory differs, they all share a glimmer of “what matters most.” What matters most is the essence that is revealed beyond the story. It’s like the gem hidden within the deepest layers, underneath the plot, the characters, and how we perceive what really happened, which is how we tell it.

For instance, when I was 25, my mother was dying of cancer. We had been estranged for several years, with only brief encounters. I desperately wanted connection but had been denied that until she became sick. I vividly remember the four times I saw her before she passed. I remember trying to have real conversations with her — ones that would help heal the rift between mother and daughter. I could feel we had a short window of time, one not to be wasted. To my surprise and deep disappointment, she was not willing to meet me there. When I pressed her about the rift, she replied that she didn’t know what I was talking about. So, our walks in my sister’s backyard, framed by beautiful flowers and shade trees, consisted of simple talk about what plants were there, what might be a good addition to the garden, or the fragrance of jasmine growing over the fence. We stopped as we felt the Charleston breezes waft through. Later I would have the opportunity to drive her to get summer peaches, her favorite. My mother was choosing the moments she had left, and she didn’t want to spend it rehashing things.

When she was hospitalized for the final time, my sisters and I took turns sitting with her. When it was my turn, I was afraid — afraid that I wouldn’t know what to do, afraid of what I would see or feel, afraid that I wouldn’t know what to say. But I went in anyway, because my mother was dying and I didn’t want to miss any more precious time with her. When I entered the room, she was lying in bed with the covers pulled up high, though it was hot and humid outside. I carefully approached, trying to be quiet so as not to disturb her. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes were closed, so I sat in a chair next to her and waited. There was an eerie silence in the room, as if the room itself held the space for death. Finally, she opened her eyes. They were cloudy, glazed over. She weakly turned her head my direction and gurgled something I couldn’t understand. She wanted water. I held the cup and tried to help her with the straw, but she didn’t have the strength to drink. Her mouth was very dry. I took the straw out, but the water spilled all over her chin. I panicked. I froze.

But suddenly, something else happened in that moment. It was the look in her eyes; I could see straight to her soul. Words started forming: I wanted to go over it all, make things right between us, set things straight. I opened my mouth but no words would come. Nothing.

Except this.

“I love you.”

Three words. Everything else that had happened, all past experiences, all past misunderstandings, fell away in that one moment as I realized that nothing else mattered. A powerful presence filled the room as the hidden gem revealed itself. Those three words spoke complete truth, powerful beyond measure. No other words were needed as I came face to face with loss, grief, and most importantly, love.

Each moment of our lives provides a window of opportunity — one that opens and eventually closes. What scares me the most is missing what matters the most. I don’t want to ever live in the story and miss the direct experience of Life.