I’m reminded of my cowardice every spring, as I reorganize my closet.

There it is – unwrinkled, neatly folded with the rest of my clothes. A souvenir T-shirt picturing Chinese pandas at Florida’s Busch Gardens. Decades old now, and never worn. It was supposed to be a gift for my friend, Shelley. At least that’s what I intended.

How could I know she’d be gone forever before I could “find the time” to visit?

Well okay, to be honest, I knew it was a possibility. She’d been battling this incurable disease for years, and I knew things weren’t looking good. But I was so busy, what with graduation from college, job hunting, socializing – with my other, non-terminal, friends of course – I’d get to it sooner or later.

And though I hated to admit it, visiting her wasn’t much fun anymore.

While my life was moving forward, hers was stuck, in one place and in the past. The same stories, the same old jokes. Not to mention the fact that the disease had worn her down into a tiny shell of her former self.

Oh sure, I rationalized, I could tell her about all that was going on in my life – but what if that made her feel bad, like she was missing out?

As if that would have been a revelation to her.

Even though the T-shirt was chosen especially because she collected pandas, I worried it would remind her of places she’d probably never visit, things she’d never see.

I waffled, worried, and ultimately waited too long.

It was my first funeral.

I remember being ashamed, hearing stories of the people who did visit her – when she was alive, and it counted. People who moved past their own unease or discomfort to show someone she still mattered.

Mostly, I remember the woman who told of singing Shelley her favorite hymn, “Amazing Grace”.

She sang it at the service, in a voice unaccustomed to public solos.

Quavering and sweet, slightly off-key, her imperfect, heartfelt rendition made me ache. And humbled me and my excuses.

There never was a perfect time to visit, or a perfect gift. And that really wasn’t the point.

Not following through on my good intentions deprived my friend of even the smallest of pleasures in her too-short life.

Sure, I meant to visit.

But unfortunately, a last chance rarely announces itself, and isn’t always wrapped up in a sense of urgency. All too often, you’re blindsided by grief when you least expect it.

I’ve kept the T-shirt all of these years as a reminder that good intentions mean nothing without follow-through. And tomorrow may not be soon enough.

Now every time I push past reluctance or shrug off an inconvenience to do the right thing, I thank Shelley for that last important lesson.

And I hope that somehow, somewhere, she knows that I learned. That I remember. And that she mattered.

Deep Dive podcast about “Wasting Time”