Expiration Date
Sean Moore
How many Saturdays do you have left?
Here is the regret.
Another unused and unloved vegetable is tossed out. And another. And another.
Dozens of bright colors turned to a dull sheen of brown from neglect. Florets overgrown with the soft fuzz of mold. Stalks once straight and sturdy have since been made slimy. The crunch of freshness is now a sagging, limp affair. There is a certain pungency to the crisper drawer.
And every trashed bag of former produce is a reminder of a wasted opportunity.
Moments in our life sometimes have a similar tendency to broadcast their expiration date. Those experiences that are given weight, that carry importance, simply because they come with an expiration date attached. That by not only knowing that something will end, but the when of it, we draw greater meaning, and we seek to make the most of the moments until then, when it has rotten, or become stale and is thrown away.
Surely you remember this? That vacation you took in paradise which you knew would only last so long. That wonderful person you met by accident as your summer adventure in a new country was just coming to a close. Every second was made that much more potent, that much more poignant, knowing that the big deadline loomed. You knew exactly when it would end, and that meant every moment you spent not enjoying the time that was left was a moment wasted. There was a fairy godmother, that carriage will turn into a pumpkin, and that magical night will all end at the stroke of midnight. Enjoy it while it lasts.
This is the exception, not the norm - most days come and go and make little announcement that anything has changed, that they’ve expired, utterly and forever, and that you’ll never get a chance to cook with them again. Most things in our life don’t have expiration dates, don’t have an expected shelf life, don’t have tell-tale signs of becoming rotten. They are here, they are gone, and if we blink, we may miss it all.
And then every moment afterward, we are tainted by a faint pang of regret. If only there were more time to enjoy it. If only I had known that it would be gone. If only I had spent my time more wisely.
Knowing when a thing will end enhances our experience of it. This shouldn’t be. Because we can never know where the endings are, where the hard edges stop and the cliff falls away abruptly and suddenly there isn’t, there isn’t that person you planned to spend more time with, there isn’t that opportunity that you wanted to take up. Was is an inevitable and impending outcome of is. Things will cease to be without warning, and without taking comment from us to see if we’ve prepared for it.
We look at life as if it were a well-made candle. A long wick and a thick column of wax. We don’t notice how the shape changes over a single day; it happens to slow, and we know that the flame will still be lit in the morning. But we forget that a candle can be snuffed out at any moment. Suddenly, abruptly, and without notice.