One More Day With a Lost Loved One

Author Mitch Albom has a quote that says, “But ask yourself this: Have you ever lost someone you love and wanted one more conversation, one more chance to make up for the time when you thought they would be here forever? If so, then you know you can go your whole life collecting days, and none will outweigh the one you wish you had back. What if you got it back?”

What if you had one more day?

I’ve found myself asking the question, “What if I did get one more day?” I think of the most mundane and simplest things when I ponder that.

I recall days before Grandmommie lost her voice to dementia. I think about riding in the truck with her and Granddaddy. My brother and I would talk him into taking the long way back home, through what we called “the fun hills.” Thirty plus years later, we still take that stretch of road, and we still call it “the fun hills,” even though our grandparents have long since passed.

Granddaddy would fly over the hills, and the tires would lose their grip with the road for a millisecond, sending our stomachs up into our throats. That’s what it felt like anyway. We always loved it, and Grandmommie always objected, barking his name as we all cackled. I’d give anything to hear his laugh. I’d give anything to hear her barking, “Arlie!”

When she lost bits of her personality, she lost that spirit that led her to speak up and out. She became largely silent, and we missed all of her, even her snappiness.

Nostalgic for simpler days

When I think about having more days with Daddy, I’d make them equally as simple. I think about him just being content. He’s rocking in his recliner, whistling, and waiting to inhale whatever I’m fixing for supper a few feet away.

I think about the days he’d tell us the same stories we’d heard a million times, and how he was always his own best audience, laughing as much as his listeners. Those stories poured out of him freely before dementia made his stories word soup. He was still expressive, but the sentences never lined up in any coherent fashion.

I think about leaving the farm with him at dawn when I was little to run to the John Deere store near Memphis to pick up parts, and sleeping in the truck seat on the way. A perk of the trip was grabbing Coca-Colas or NuGrape drinks in glass bottles from a local mechanic’s shop long after they were out of style.

I think about us hitting the tiny store nearest to our house that has since been shuttered. He’d buy a pound of bologna at the deli counter, a loaf of bread, and Cokes in glass bottles for our impromptu picnics. We’d ride down to the never blue and always brown Hatchie River and watch it meander through the trees and in front of the truck as we ate and talked and laughed.

One more day vs going back in time

Those are the kinds of days I’d wish for if I were given more with any of them. Days with laughter and silliness, but with clear thoughts and impeccable memories.

Ultimately, I don’t think I’d necessarily choose to have more days or new ones, I’d just like to relive a few. I wouldn’t want the stress or pressure of knowing it was the last. I’d just like to settle back into the days when wonder was found in the simple things, and worries were cast down that dirty old river as soon as they appeared.

As Mitch said, “None will outweigh the one you wish you had back.” I think he was right.

What kind of day would you wish for?