My friend still lives with her parents, even though she's in college. Her mom cooked a huge steaming slab of lasagna and the whole family nattered back and forth the way families with children do, with the two sisters trading barbs about each others' boyfriends, and the parents chiding them (and each other) for their poor behavior in front of a guest. And I made fun of my friend, and I made fun of her sister, and they made fun of each other and complained about school and I played games on the computer for a while.
It was comforting to spend some time with a real family again; you spend so much time on your own in college and grad school that you forget that you need to be somewhere where you can be immature and shy and unhappy in front of other people. A family dinner does that, because families at home always have all their insecurities on parade, and somehow it's restful to not have to be on your best behavior for a while. You don't have the pressure of holding up a suave, witty and urbane facade, and you can just sit on the couch and eat lots of apple pie if you want - because everyone else is being just as neurotic as you are. And even if you are accidentally really mean to someone, they will still love you because that's how a family is. Besides, they will probably be in a lousy mood later and be mean to you, but it doesn't really matter because that's just how things go.
Meanwhile the dog (of the `shaggy-pillow-with-legs' variety) was running around the floor, nipping at everyone's heels and yapping madly about something or other. They gave the dog a treat that looked like a leather hotdog, and he just loved it; he grabbed it and ran off to the other end of the kitchen, chewing on the thing the whole time. Then he ripped it to shreds with the greatest of canine glee.
I mentioned that my housemate has a dog. Instantly they foisted one of the treats on me. When I got home, I wasn't sure whether or not I should go giving foreign treats to the dog without permission. So the leather hotdog stayed in the car in the plastic bag they put it in.
Well, my housemate's dog died this past week. The dog was pretty old, and she'd had bad arthritis for a long time, and one of her legs finally collapsed and she couldn't walk on it. She was really in a lot of pain, and they had her put down.
And as it happened, I didn't vote this year. I didn't get my registration in on time after I moved. I figured Mario would squeak by even without my help.
The day after the election, as I got in the car, I noticed the leather hotdog still sitting in the plastic bag on the back seat. I turned on the radio, thinking of the dog, and heard the election news. Mario had lost.
I never got around to giving the dog her treat. I never got around to sharing that little moment of time with her, giving her a new treat she'd never had before and letting her chew on it. I figured the dog would always be there. And I never got around to voting. I figured Mario Cuomo would always be there.
I was wrong. I will never get a chance to see the dog again, and I will never get a chance to make this vote again. And I have lost something.
I will never miss an election again. It's too important.
There are other important things besides elections. There are things like friends that I should go see while I still have the chance, and sunsets that will never be here again, and feelings that I will never have the chance to have again. Every moment that happens is unique and priceless.
So I'm going back to my friend's house for Sunday dinner soon, and I'm planning a trip to Akron so I can see someone there before she moves to Israel, and I made sure to mail a letter I've been meaning to mail, to someone who I thought was pretty special when I met her.
I don't want to miss any more moments.
