Returning To Chico

It's nice to return home, sleep in your own bed, and collect your thoughts. My uncle Bill was to young, only 62.

I read this poem during the funeral on behalf of my Aunt Ronda, its titled "The Dash"

I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of his friend.
He referred to the dates on his tombstone from the beginning . . . to the end.

He noted that first came the date of his birth and spoke of the second with tears,
but he said that what mattered most of all was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time that he spent alive on earth,
and now only those who loved him know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own; the cars, the house, the cash.
What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard, are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left. (You could be at "dash mid-range.")

If we could just slow down enough to consider what's true and what's real,
and always try to understand the way other people feel.

And . . . be less quick to anger, and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives like we've never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect, and more often wear a smile,
remembering that this special dash might only last a little while.

How are you spending your dash? How am I spending mine?