On the morning of the 31st, I decided it was time to tackle the pantry. We had cans and boxes of items in there that had not been unearthed in a while. Donna was driving back from Virginia. We had done a pantry examination a few years back. That time we filled a garbage bag with so many cans that the trash workers had to be weight lifters to yank that bag into the truck. I figured I'd use some hours while she was on the road to do the job again.
I didn't think of any significance to the date of the task when I started out. But as I continued to take cans of soup, and boxes of pasta, and assorted bottles of oil, vinegar, sauce--the fact that I was checking out expiration dates on a day at the end of the year, gave me pause.
I've spent over seven decades bringing in the new year. Sure, the first dozen or so I had little regard for the event, but still we are talking about 50 plus years of celebrating and, on occasion, evaluating what I need to do and resolving to do them.
We all have an expiration date. It's just not stamped on our bodies somewhere. I'm in Florida now, vacating the frigid New England temperatures. I bumped into a woman here whose husband died last year. I overheard a cluster of snow birds talking about who all has been lost since last season.
The experience of checking out the expiration dates two weeks ago has stayed with me for the fortnight. COVID has taken the life of two people I knew this past year. Some friends are now sick, but because they have been vaccinated, will get better.
Typically I do not get maudlin about the inevitability of mortality. Most of the time, unless I look in a mirror or have to run across the street, I think of myself as a 20 year old. But we all have an expiration date. And like the cans of soup and pasta sauce and matzoh ball mix I discarded on New Year's eve, at some point there will be no time to laugh and love. It is sobering.
