A Perfect Moment
It was the weekend of my parents" sixtieth wedding anniversary party, and there was a lot to do. I had traveled from my home in Chicago, where I live, to my parents" home in northern New Jersey on Friday, and my two brothers, my sister-in-law and I had been working almost nonstop to put all of the final details in place. My brother Jerry had to call the caterer; his wife, Mary, had to buy the paper goods; I had to call the guests who hadn"t responded to find out if they were coming; and my brother Rick had to pick up the cake. Along with these tasks, we had my parents" health needs to contend with. My parents were both in their eighties. My mother had suffered a stroke, and now needed help with many routine activities, and my father had been receiving chemotherapy for the leukemia that had recently been diagnosed.
It was stressful, to say the least. In addition to contending with the immediate tasks associated with the party, my brothers and I had stayed up late Saturday night discussing our parents" precarious health, and the challenges we would certainly face in the near future. We talked about it often, on the phone and whenever we got together, but there was never enough time. My parents" health needs changed in often sudden and unpredictable ways, so it was impossible to really plan for the future. We all worried about what the next few years, months, or even days might bring.
The party was scheduled for Sunday afternoon. It was to be an open house at my parents" home; more than fifty people were expected to show up and squeeze into the modest, three-bedroom ranch house. I woke up early on Sunday, already thinking of everything I had to d set up chairs, move the dining-room table, take my mother to get her hair and her nails done. I was feeling stressed before I even got out of bed.
My parents were still sleeping, and my brothers wouldn"t be coming over for another couple of hours, so I decided to go for a run. Maybe that would help relieve my stress. I quickly pulled on my sweat pants and sweatshirt and a windbreaker, and stepped outside, quietly pulling the door closed behind me.
I jogged down the quiet street and up the next block, a long, winding street with many large, beautifully landscaped homes. The last time I was here it was late summer, and the yards were an explosion of color, flowers and bushes of every kind spilling over the lawns and porches, and children"s bicycles strewn in the driveways.
But now in the last weekend of March, it was chilly, gray and drizzling slightly. The ground was muddy, the grass sparse. I shivered and I pulled the hood of my windbreaker over my head and ran a little faster as I crossed into the country club on the other side of the highway. My footsteps were the only sound, slapping on the damp pavement as I jogged down the road.
Usually, I enjoyed this route and the routine of running. But today, I was distracted. It was cold and the flowerbeds were still bare, and I had so much on my mind. I was completely engrossed in my thoughts, worrying about my parents" long-term needs and also about the things I still needed to do today to prepare for the party. I barely noticed my surroundings.
I was jogging along, head down, when I slipped. Suddenly, I was sprawled in the wet grass on the side of the road. I knew immediately that I wasn"t hurt, but I was out of breath and my shoe was untied. As I tied my shoe, I looked up for the first time and noticed exactly where I was. I had jogged a little more than halfway around the lake that sits in the middle of the country club. When I was here last, in the summer, there were children splashing in the water, ducks quacking, bright flowers lining the road.
But today the lake was completely still. The trees, still leafless in early spring, stood out sharply against the gray sky, their trunks darkened by the mist. The ground along the edge of the lake was barren, with no hint of the riot of color that would burst from the soil in less than a month"s time. And there was not another person to be seen, not a single car on the road, not even the cry of a bird or a duck to break the silence.
It was utterly pristine and perfect, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I sat there for several more minutes, just watching the stillness, listening to the silence.
Now that I wasn"t running, I started to feel cold, so I reluctantly got up and started back towards my parents" house. But now I was acutely aware of what I was seeing, of where I was at that moment. I realized that I couldn"t even remember the first half of my run. I had been so focused on the things that would come after, on everything I had to do, that I hadn"t noticed whether there were buds on the forsythia bush at the entrance to the country club, or whether the house on the corner that had been half-built in the summer was finished yet, or whether Maynard, the elderly dog belonging to my parents" equally elderly neighbor, was lying in his usual spot on the front porch.
When I got back to the house, my parents were both up. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table in her bathrobe, reading the morning paper. My father was at the stove, making coffee. They looked up and greeted me as I came in.
"Hi, honey," my mother said, as she took my hand and squeezed it; her hands were soft and warm.
"How was your walk? Do you want some coffee?" my father asked, smiling.
It was late; I had been gone longer than I"d planned, and there was so much to do. I really should go take my shower, get dressed and get to work right away, I thought.
But it was warm in the kitchen, and the coffee smelled wonderful, and my parents were both there - it was an utterly perfect moment.
"I"d love some coffee," I said.
In the end, everything I needed to do for the party got done in time. And the party itself was wonderful. Celebrating sixty years of marriage is, of course, an amazing achievement. And for my parents, being able to share that celebration with their family and their oldest and closest friends was especially rewarding.
But for me, the best part of the whole day was that hour I spent sitting in the kitchen with my parents that morning, drinking coffee - just enjoying the moment, unburdened by the past or the future.
I know, of course, that I can"t always have that luxury. As my parents grow older, the problems and the worries I have about them aren"t likely to go away, and I"m going to have to continue to deal with them. But I think it"s going to be a little easier now, because my focus has changed. Even though it"s important to plan for the future, I"m going to make sure I"m not looking so far ahead all the time that I overlook the special and perfect moments that still happen, every day. I"m going to make sure I look for those moments, and savor them. (實習編輯：夏根建)