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Old Monday, April 02, 2007
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Post If Tomorrow Never Comes

If Tomorrow Never Comes
~


If I knew it would be the last time that I'd see you fall asleep,

I would tuck you in more tightly and pray the Lord, your soul to keep;

If I knew it would be the last time that I see you walk out the door,

I would give you a hug and kiss and call you back for one more;

If I knew it would be the last time I'd hear your voice lifted up in praise,

I would video tape each action and word, so I could play them back day after day;

If I knew it would be the last time I could spare an extra minute or two to stop and say "I love you,";

instead of assuming you would KNOW I do;

If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day,

well I'm sure you'll have so many more, so I can let just this one slip away.

For surely there's always tomorrow to make up for an oversight,

and we always get a second chance to make everything right.

There will always be another day to say our "I love you's"

And certainly there's another chance to say our "Anything I can do's?"

But just in case I might be wrong and today is all I get,

I would like to say how much I love you and I hope we never forget;

Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, young or old alike,

And today may be the last chance you get to hold your loved one tight.

So, if you're waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today

For if tomorrow never comes, you'll surely regret the day

That you didn't take that extra time for a smile, a hug, or a kiss,

That you were too busy to grant somone, what turned out to be his or her one last wish.

So hold your loved ones close today, whisper in their ear

Tell them how much you love them and that you'll always hold them dear,

Take time to say "I'm sorry," "please forgive me," "thank you" or "it"s okay"

And if tomorrow never comes, you'll have no regrets about today.
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Old Monday, April 02, 2007
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Wonderful! It reminds me a great story "Regret" by Guy de Maupassant. I am pasting the entire story here.

Regret


Monsieur Saval, who was called in Mantes "Father Saval," had just risen
from bed. He was weeping. It was a dull autumn day; the leaves were
falling. They fell slowly in the rain, like a heavier and slower rain.
M. Saval was not in good spirits. He walked from the fireplace to the
window, and from the window to the fireplace. Life has its sombre days.
It would no longer have any but sombre days for him, for he had reached
the age of sixty-two. He is alone, an old bachelor, with nobody about
him. How sad it is to die alone, all alone, without any one who is
devoted to you!

He pondered over his life, so barren, so empty. He recalled former days,
the days of his childhood, the home, the house of his parents; his
college days, his follies; the time he studied law in Paris, his father's
illness, his death. He then returned to live with his mother. They
lived together very quietly, and desired nothing more. At last the
mother died. How sad life is! He lived alone since then, and now, in
his turn, he, too, will soon be dead. He will disappear, and that will
be the end. There will be no more of Paul Saval upon the earth. What a
frightful thing! Other people will love, will laugh. Yes, people will
go on amusing themselves, and he will no longer exist! Is it not strange
that people can laugh, amuse themselves, be joyful under that eternal
certainty of death? If this death were only probable, one could then
have hope; but no, it is inevitable, as inevitable as that night follows
the day.

If, however, his life had been full! If he had done something; if he had
had adventures, great pleasures, success, satisfaction of some kind or
another. But no, nothing. He had done nothing, nothing but rise from
bed, eat, at the same hours, and go to bed again. And he had gone on
like that to the age of sixty-two years. He had not even taken unto
himself a wife, as other men do. Why? Yes, why was it that he had not
married? He might have done so, for he possessed considerable means.
Had he lacked an opportunity? Perhaps! But one can create
opportunities. He was indifferent; that was all. Indifference had been
his greatest drawback, his defect, his vice. How many men wreck their
lives through indifference! It is so difficult for some natures to get
out of bed, to move about, to take long walks, to speak, to study any
question.

He had not even been loved. No woman had reposed on his bosom, in a
complete abandon of love. He knew nothing of the delicious anguish of
expectation, the divine vibration of a hand in yours, of the ecstasy of
triumphant passion.

What superhuman happiness must overflow your heart, when lips encounter
lips for the first time, when the grasp of four arms makes one being of
you, a being unutterably happy, two beings infatuated with one another.

M. Saval was sitting before the fire, his feet on the fender, in his
dressing gown. Assuredly his life had been spoiled, completely spoiled.
He had, however, loved. He had loved secretly, sadly, and indifferently,
in a manner characteristic of him in everything. Yes, he had loved his
old friend, Madame Sandres, the wife of his old companion, Sandres.
Ah! if he had known her as a young girl! But he had met her too late;
she was already married. Unquestionably, he would have asked her hand!
How he had loved her, nevertheless, without respite, since the first day
he set eyes on her!

He recalled his emotion every time he saw her, his grief on leaving her,
the many nights that he could not sleep, because he was thinking of her.

On rising in the morning he was somewhat more rational than on the
previous evening.

Why?

How pretty she was formerly, so dainty, with fair curly hair, and always
laughing. Sandres was not the man she should have chosen. She was now
fifty-two years of age. She seemed happy. Ah! if she had only loved him
in days gone by; yes, if she had only loved him! And why should she not
have loved him, he, Saval, seeing that he loved her so much, yes, she,
Madame Sandres!

If only she could have guessed. Had she not guessed anything, seen
anything, comprehended anything? What would she have thought? If he had
spoken, what would she have answered?

And Saval asked himself a thousand other things. He reviewed his whole
life, seeking to recall a multitude of details.

He recalled all the long evenings spent at the house of Sandres, when the
latter's wife was young, and so charming.

He recalled many things that she had said to him, the intonations of her
voice, the little significant smiles that meant so much.

He recalled their walks, the three of them together, along the banks of
the Seine, their luncheon on the grass on Sundays, for Sandres was
employed at the sub-prefecture. And all at once the distinct
recollection came to him of an afternoon spent with her in a little wood
on the banks of the river.

They had set out in the morning, carrying their provisions in baskets.
It was a bright spring morning, one of those days which intoxicate one.
Everything smells fresh, everything seems happy. The voices of the birds
sound more joyous, and-they fly more swiftly. They had luncheon on the
grass, under the willow trees, quite close to the water, which glittered
in the sun's rays. The air was balmy, charged with the odors of fresh
vegetation; they drank it in with delight. How pleasant everything was
on that day!

After lunch, Sandres went to sleep on the broad of his back. "The best
nap he had in his life," said he, when he woke up.

Madame Sandres had taken the arm of Saval, and they started to walk along
the river bank.

She leaned tenderly on his arm. She laughed and said to him: "I am
intoxicated, my friend, I am quite intoxicated." He looked at her, his
heart going pit-a-pat. He felt himself grow pale, fearful that he might
have looked too boldly at her, and that the trembling of his hand had
revealed his passion.

She had made a wreath of wild flowers and water-lilies, and she asked
him: "Do I look pretty like that?"

As he did not answer--for he could find nothing to say, he would have
liked to go down on his knees--she burst out laughing, a sort of annoyed,
displeased laugh, as she said: "Great goose, what ails you? You might at
least say something."

He felt like crying, but could not even yet find a word to say.

All these things came back to him now, as vividly as on the day when they
took place. Why had she said this to him, "Great goose, what ails you?
You might at least say something!"

And he recalled how tenderly she had leaned on his arm. And in passing
under a shady tree he had felt her ear brushing his cheek, and he had
moved his head abruptly, lest she should suppose he was too familiar.

When he had said to her: "Is it not time to return?" she darted a
singular look at him. "Certainly," she said, "certainly," regarding him
at the same time in a curious manner. He had not thought of it at the
time, but now the whole thing appeared to him quite plain.

"Just as you like, my friend. If you are tired let us go back."

And he had answered: "I am not fatigued; but Sandres may be awake now."

And she had said: "If you are afraid of my husband's being awake, that is
another thing. Let us return."

On their way back she remained silent, and leaned no longer on his arm.
Why?

At that time it had never occurred to him, to ask himself "why." Now he
seemed to apprehend something that he had not then understood.

Could it?

M. Saval felt himself blush, and he got up at a bound, as if he were
thirty years younger and had heard Madame Sandres say, "I love you."

Was it possible? That idea which had just entered his mind tortured him.
Was it possible that he had not seen, had not guessed?

Oh! if that were true, if he had let this opportunity of happiness pass
without taking advantage of it!

He said to himself: "I must know. I cannot remain in this state of
doubt. I must know!" He thought: "I am sixty-two years of age, she is
fifty-eight; I may ask her that now without giving offense."

He started out.

The Sandres' house was situated on the other side of the street, almost
directly opposite his own. He went across and knocked at the door, and a
little servant opened it.

"You here at this hour, Saval! Has some accident happened to you?"

"No, my girl," he replied; "but go and tell your mistress that I want to
speak to her at once."

"The fact is madame is preserving pears for the winter, and she is in the
preserving room. She is not dressed, you understand."

"Yes, but go and tell her that I wish to see her on a very important
matter."

The little servant went away, and Saval began to walk, with long, nervous
strides, up and down the drawing-room. He did not feel in the least
embarrassed, however. Oh! he was merely going to ask her something, as
he would have asked her about some cooking recipe. He was sixty-two
years of age!

The door opened and madame appeared. She was now a large woman, fat and
round, with full cheeks and a sonorous laugh. She walked with her arms
away from her sides and her sleeves tucked up, her bare arms all covered
with fruit juice. She asked anxiously:

"What is the matter with you, my friend? You are not ill, are you?"

"No, my dear friend; but I wish to ask you one thing, which to me is of
the first importance, something which is torturing my heart, and I want
you to promise that you will answer me frankly."

She laughed, "I am always frank. Say on."

"Well, then. I have loved you from the first day I ever saw you. Can
you have any doubt of this?"

She responded, laughing, with something of her former tone of voice.

"Great goose! what ails you? I knew it from the very first day!"


Saval began to tremble. He stammered out: "You knew it? Then . . ."

He stopped.

She asked:

"Then?"

He answered:

"Then--what did you think? What--what--what would you have answered?"

She broke into a peal of laughter. Some of the juice ran off the tips of
her fingers on to the carpet.

"What?"

"I? Why, you did not ask me anything. It was not for me to declare
myself!"

He then advanced a step toward her.

"Tell me--tell me . . . . You remember the day when Sandres went to
sleep on the grass after lunch . . . when we had walked together as
far as the bend of the river, below . . ."

He waited, expectantly. She had ceased to laugh, and looked at him,
straight in the eyes.

"Yes, certainly, I remember it."

He answered, trembling all over:

"Well--that day--if I had been--if I had been--venturesome--what would
you have done?"

She began to laugh as only a happy woman can laugh, who has nothing to
regret, and responded frankly, in a clear voice tinged with irony:

"I would have yielded, my friend."

She then turned on her heels and went back to her jam-making.

Saval rushed into the street, cast down, as though he had met with some
disaster. He walked with giant strides through the rain, straight on,
until he reached the river bank, without thinking where he was going.
He then turned to the right and followed the river. He walked a long
time, as if urged on by some instinct. His clothes were running with
water, his hat was out of shape, as soft as a rag, and dripping like a
roof. He walked on, straight in front of him. At last, he came to the
place where they had lunched on that day so long ago, the recollection of
which tortured his heart. He sat down under the leafless trees, and
wept.
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