Recently, a news story caught my eye. A pickup crossed the center line and hit a van in West Texas. The occupants of the truck died as did most of the occupants of the van, a collegiate golf team from New Mexico. My first thought was drunk driver. Then it came to light the driver was thirteen, and I wondered if the 13-year-old had stolen the truck. Then it came to light he was in the truck with his father. Then it came to light, the family had lost everything in a house fire just weeks before. Then it came to light there was probably a blowout of a tire that was a spare right before the truck crossed the center line.

At that point, I realized the accident was a long cascade of sad events for the family who lost a father and son, and now in addition to losing all of their possessions, they lost loved ones who were probably traveling to try and make good the earlier loss. And I thought how random it was for that series of events to cross the timelines of all those people in the van who had no idea what was coming or what it was that hit them so suddenly and unexpectedly.

And that brought me back to something I’ve come to understand well since my wife passed away. Life is short and you just never know how or when or why it will end. Which lately has helped get me off my rear end to do things I love with people I love because I understand better than ever that my time here is short, and nothing is promised. And this is probably an essay that has been written a million times over the years by better philosophers than me, which probably indicates the lesson is worth repeating. And thus, I am shamelessly repeating it because I can.

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale