In Spanish the way to say “what do you like to do?” literally translates as “to what do you dedicate yourself?”

I’m thinking about that in a deeper sense, as though I were floating above church rafters in some liminal state, eavesdropping on my own eulogy. What would people say about me? That I wore my heart on my sleeve, was an open book? That I had no boundaries? That I lacked any sense of self preservation—hurtling myself headfirst into emotional danger at every opportunity? That I was forged in a crucible molten mixture of kindness and no-nonsense-frankness? Challenging friends, family, colleagues with opinions they never asked for, but was always there with Kleenex and a strong hug?

What have I got left—10 or 15 years of shelf life to solidify some kind of dedication that I can be proud of?

No matter how earnestly my friends try to convince me, every disappointment, mistake, or loss in my life always reduces down to a feeling of failure in that I couldn’t even keep my own son alive. So it is that every August 15, I take inventory of my accomplishments and regrets and I look up to the moon and ask my late son, “Miles, how am I doing?”

We should wake up every morning with these holy words on our lips: “a que te dedicas?” and make it a mantra for each precious day…