I loved him very much...we grew up together.

-Bruce Springsteen

I don't have a lot of people I can say that about. There are a couple of cousins I've known since we were young enough to rejoice in the nightly arrival of the ice cream truck. Then there's Ty, going back when I was 15 or so. I met Gene when I was about 20. It seems like a very long time ago.

It's very easy to take the ones we love for granted. Good friends seem as permanent as that granite sculpture we drive by every day. Immovable. Forever.

But that's just an idea that makes us comfortable. For the most part, we avoid the idea and just live in the moment — blocking out thoughts of the inevitable. This isn't really a mistake. It's a defense mechanism. Everybody has worries, but if we let them take over our thoughts, all of the joy of life will be drained away.

Today was an odd day. This week was an odd week. I'd like to shrink-wrap it in plastic, put it in a box, and stuff it in the back of my closet. On Monday night, I had dinner with an old friend. We get together periodically because both of us know that there's never enough time. I spent most of this evening at the hospital. My mother came down with bronchitis last week, or so the diagnosis went. As time passed, she became weaker, and shorter of breath. As it turns out, there's some sort of fluid on the lung issue. Actions will be taken tomorrow. We're told that she should feel better immediately. It's the diagnosis that scares me.

I know that none of these things — all boiling down to the awareness of mortality — are new. People know that they will die. So will their loved ones. The question is, what will we do with this information? Let it kill us? Early?

I don't have the answers. There's the easy stereotypes of "making the most of life" and all of that. The fact is that there's no Hallmark™ packaging of these issues that will give universal aid and comfort. "Shit happens" might be a bad bumper sticker, but it's also the truth.

So do what you can to squeeze every last drop of life out of your stay here. I mean, what else can you do?

Danny Federici, 1950-2008.