Here One Moment, Gone the Next

What an old photograph revealed about presence and loss

Have you ever admired someone who appeared larger than life to you? Someone whose presence filled the room, whose very existence felt permanent? Then one day, you wake up and discover they are gone.

Recently, I pulled a printed photograph from among a heap of old pictures in my bedroom dresser drawer. Looking into the faces of the six adults in the photo, I realized that three of them had already died.

When they were alive, each seemed as if they would always be around, always a part of my life.

I felt pulled into the photograph, into memories of these men and women who had helped shape my life and whom I loved dearly. Now, each of them was gone from my life.

Never to be seen or heard from again—gone just like that.

The photograph raised a larger question: all of us will be part of this one day.

When our time comes, those who’ve loved us will also stare at our photo and feel that same sense of finality.

One of the men in the photo was my old boxing coach. I met him when I signed up for his boxing class at the local community college. In his late sixties, he had trained champions in the New York City area decades earlier.

We stayed in touch long after the boxing course I took with him ended, and over time became close friends.

I got to know his wife and children. I helped him with chores inside and outside his three-story home. Occasionally, we’d have lunch or dinner together. He used to bring me along to help with his annual boxing dinner event, where he honored former champions.

As time went by, we both got older, and I got busier with family and work. Gradually, we saw one another less and less.

One day, after a long stretch between visits, I went to see him.

After his assistant told me he was in his upstairs office, I went up to see him.

I found him in a wheelchair behind his desk, his back to me, staring out the window onto the street below. His hair was now snow white and nearly all gone, and he seemed much smaller. I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or awake.

I slowly walked up and stood behind him, wondering what he was thinking, how he was doing.

He never turned.

Two months later, he was gone.

One day, we are not going to wake up again.

Here one moment, gone the next.