A Second Chance at Everything?
Pepper Scott
Terry and I used to read books together.
It was one of those simple things that quietly became a part of who we were. Sitting beside each other, turning pages, sharing thoughts, laughing at a line we both liked, or sometimes just enjoying the comfortable silence that comes when two people are together and there is no need to fill every moment with words.
Then MS slowly changed things.
There came a point when the disease made reading more difficult for Terry. Holding a book became harder. Spending long periods reading became something his body no longer easily allowed him to do. So, I started reading for both of us.
In many ways, I became his eyes for the pages.
Mitch Albom has always been one of our favorite authors. Years ago, we read what we called his “death and dying” series. It sounds like a heavy category, doesn’t it? Almost like something you would avoid when you are trying to enjoy life.
But that was never how we saw it.
Those books were not about focusing on the end. They were about understanding the gift of the middle. They reminded us that our time here is precious, and because it is limited, every ordinary day becomes something worth noticing.
A morning cup of coffee.
A shared glance across the room.
A silly joke that only the two of us understood.
The little pieces of life that seem small at the time often become the treasures we carry.
Maybe that is why we connected so deeply with those stories. We already knew, in our own quiet way, that our time together was something to hold gently. Life does not make promises about how long we get with the people we love. It simply gives us today and asks us to be present for it.
Terry passed away more than a year ago.
I read Twice on my own.
At first, it felt strange. Almost unfamiliar. A Mitch Albom book without Terry beside me felt like walking through a familiar garden and noticing one of the favorite trees was no longer there.
But something surprising happened.
I did not feel alone while reading it.
Instead, I felt like Terry was there in his own way, quietly sitting beside me, listening to my thoughts, probably adding his own little comments at exactly the right moments. Knowing him, he would have had a few things to say.
Maybe he would have pointed out something I missed.
Maybe he would have teased me for getting emotional over a sentence.
Maybe he would have simply smiled.
That is the beautiful thing about love. It leaves behind little footprints. They appear in unexpected places, sometimes in a book, a song, a familiar smell, or a memory that suddenly arrives like a warm breeze through an open window.
If I had the chance to do everything twice over, I know one thing for certain.
I would choose Terry.
Again and again.
I would choose the laughter, the challenges, the ordinary days, the adventures, the quiet moments, and even the difficult seasons because they were all part of our story.
But I would also choose to do everything twice better.
I would slow down more.
Notice more.
Say thank you more.
Hold the moments a little longer.
Maybe that is the lesson hidden inside the idea of doing life twice. We do not need a second chance to begin appreciating what we already have.
The first time is already the gift.
And if we are lucky enough to love deeply, the memories continue blooming long after the season has changed.
