It’s almost time. As I reminisce, nine months have ticked away in a flurry. I’ve lived, truly lived, and in the end, that’s all that matters. I’m proud, yet there's an ache in my heart, a whisper of time running out. ***  A Quiet Awakening That day, as dawn broke, I awoke to a peculiar sensation, like a persistent whisper in the depths of my soul. The light filtering through the blinds seemed different, as if it were charged with a message I had yet to decipher. In the stillness of my apartment in the USA, far from India's vibrant streets where my parents resided, I lay contemplating. My hand, resting on my chest, betrayed a brief moment of worry. I quickly dismissed it as I pondered the day ahead. Beside me, my husband Aditya, slept soundly, his breathing forming a rhythmic lullaby in the morning calm. I watched him for a moment. My mind drifted across continents and oceans to my parents. There was a sudden, inexplicable longing to see them, to bridge the vast physical distance that separated us. Deepa and Shaily, our children, slumbered peacefully, enveloped in innocent dreams. I thought of how little they knew of their grandparents, of the stories and wisdom that were waiting in the quiet corners of our family's history. I got up, feeling the cool floor under my feet. I made my way to the kitchen. Over a brewing tea, my resolve crystallized. “Why not?” I mused, “Why not take that leap? One year is enough.” With pen in hand and thoughts meandering like ships in a fog, I jotted down:

1. Spend four months with my parents.
2. Open an old-age home.
3. Own a house with a garden.

Aditya's groggy greeting broke my reverie.  “Morning,” I replied, offering tea. “Yes, indeed. It's my New Year's resolutions bucket list,” I clarified in response to his query, “but it's a bucket list with a ticking clock.” Over tea, I shared my burgeoning plan. “Aditya, this summer, I want us and the kids in India with my parents. It’s vital. Deepa is five, Shaily just two. They can afford to miss a little school.” “And our jobs?” he asked. “I’ve arranged to work remotely from India for four months. I hope you can do the same.” Aditya looked at me, a hint of surprise in his eyes. “That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? But I think it’s a great idea. The kids will love it. And your parents... they’d be thrilled.” I kept silent on the deeper layers of my sudden resolve. Maybe I couldn't quite understand it yet or was afraid to voice it out loud. The thought of opening an old-age home in India, was more like a whisper, something that had always been there in the back of my mind — a place of solace and self-esteem for old people. I wanted to be part of that, to give something back. As the day progressed, the thought took root in my mind, a dream I had harbored in silence – a house of my own with space for a garden, a living, breathing space that I could call mine. Throughout the day, these aspirations swirled in my mind, driven by the undeniable, pressing deadline of one year. The newfound clarity to realize these dreams was unshakable. “Why this sudden interest in gardening?” Aditya inquired at dinner, observing my newfound passion for gardening books. “Just exploring new hobbies,” I replied, masking my deeper intent. It was more than a hobby; it was a call to embrace life fully, to act before it was too late. That evening, as I sat on the porch, a subtle numbness crept into my fingertips. I rubbed my hands together, trying to dispel the odd sensation. It had been happening more frequently. I disregarded those transient moments of weakness as fatigue. I made a mental note to revisit the doctor, but the urgency of life’s daily rhythms soon swept the thought away. These resolutions needed to become reality — for my family, for myself, and in recognition of the unspoken truth that life's fleeting moments are treasures to be cherished. “Mommy, will we see elephants in India?” Deepa's sleepy query broke the silence. “Yes, my love,” I assured her, kissing her forehead, “Elephants and so much more.” As night fell, I gazed into the horizon, ready to embark on this journey, one step at a time. Unspoken Echoes In the days that followed, a subtle urgency underpinned my every action, observed by Aditya with a mix of curiosity and concern.  “You seem different, Sana,” he noted one evening. “Is everything alright?”  Facing Aditya, my partner of fifteen years, I wrestled with revealing my struggles. “I’m fine,” I assured him, though my heart raced with thoughts of time slipping away. Aditya, supportive yet unconvinced, saw my upcoming trip to India as a step towards living fully. Frequently, in the midst of my endeavors, there were moments when my resolve flickered like a candle in the wind. I would halt abruptly, my breath catching as if snagged by an unseen hook, and then resume with a forced smile. These moments were ephemeral. In those moments, shadows of profound inner turmoil crossed my features. Others did not notice them. Yet, they were the silent screams of my inner battle, a secret I guarded fiercely even as sands of time slipped faster through my fingers. “My mother always regretted not spending enough time with my Nani. I don’t want to make the same mistake,” I expressed to Aditya. “I want our children to spend quality time with their grandparents so that they have a lifetime of good memories.” Aditya nodded, though I could tell he wasn't entirely convinced. “Well, I'm all for living life to the fullest,” he said with a supportive smile. “And this trip to India… it's a great start.” The trip to India was set. Tickets booked, plans made. But as I lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, I knew it was more than a trip. It was a bridge to my past, a gift of memories for my children, and perhaps a farewell I wasn't ready to voice. Aditya and I spent evenings discussing the logistics of the trip, the places we would visit, the experiences we wanted the kids to have. But there were moments, fleeting and fragile, when our conversations drifted into deeper waters. “I think about this trip a lot these days,” I confessed. “I want our children to spend time with their grandparents while they are still healthy, to cherish later in life. Something they could feel nostalgic about. Something that says we cared, we loved, we made a difference.” Aditya took my hand, his touch warm and reassuring, echoing  my own unspoken thoughts. The conversation felt like a balm to my restless soul, yet the secret I held within created a barrier I wasn't ready to break. Not yet. In the weeks leading up to our departure, I threw myself into preparations with an intensity that surprised even myself. I planned the garden, contacting landscapers and gardeners, sketching out designs of lush greenery and vibrant flowers. It was going to be my sanctuary, a piece of me that would remain long after I was gone. I also began the groundwork for the old age home in India, talking with lawyers and philanthropists, discussing my vision. It was more than a project; it was a promise to those forgotten by time, a promise I was determined to keep. In the simple moments, I found my deepest joys—watching Deepa and Shaily's happiness, exchanging quiet glances with Aditya, where our conversations danced between dreams and reality. One lazy Sunday afternoon, as Aditya and I lounged in our living room, a sense of restlessness washed over me. The kids were playing in the living room, their laughter a distant melody. I looked around at our cozy, apartment home, a space filled with memories, yet something felt missing. “Aditya,” I began, the words spilling out before I could censor them. “Do you ever feel like we’re always waiting for the right time?” He pondered. A thoughtful expression crossed his face. “Sometimes, yeah. Why?” I hesitated, then said, “I don't want to wait anymore. Life is unpredictable, and I don't want to look back with regrets about not doing the things we always talked about.” Aditya agreed, “You are right. We shouldn’t wait for perfection. It may never arrive.” As our India departure neared, I found myself reflecting on the life I had built, the love I had nurtured. “Mom, are you okay?” Deepa's concerned voice broke my reverie as I packed. I smiled, brushing away the hint of tears. “More than okay, sweetie. I’m excited. We’re going to make so many wonderful memories in India.” And as I looked into my daughter’s bright, curious eyes, I knew that every second, every heartbeat, was a treasure. A treasure I would hold onto, fiercely and lovingly, until the very end. Whatever that end might be. Journey to the Roots We set off for India amidst a flurry of excitement, a contrast to my introspective mood. As we drove to the airport, I found myself lost in memories of my childhood, of the warm, spicy air of my hometown, Bihar, and the comforting embrace of my parents. Upon landing in Darbhanga Airport, the familiar sights and sounds enveloped me. It was a homecoming, yet it felt different this time. There was a purpose, a silent countdown that urged me to soak in every moment. Our journey began like a leap into a colorful, vivid dream. The moment the plane touched down, I felt a surge of emotions. I was there, back in the land that held my roots, with my children by my side.  My parents had waited for us at the airport. The years had etched lines on their faces, but their eyes sparkled with unspoken love and joy. The reunion was a blend of tears, laughter, and storytelling.  “Maa, you haven’t changed a bit,” I remarked as we settled into our home, a cozy, well-lived-in space that held fragments of my childhood. “Time spares no one Beta. But seeing you all makes me feel young again,” she replied, her eyes misty. My mother, with her gentle eyes and my father, whose smile still had the power to make me feel like a child again, embraced us all. Deepa and Shaily’s shyness quickly melted away under their  grandparents' relentless affection. The days that followed were a whirlwind of family gatherings, sightseeing, and indulging in culinary delights. Witnessing my children immersed in the Mithila culture brought me immense satisfaction. This was a connection I had yearned to give my children, a piece of their heritage.  One evening, sitting on the terrace of my parents home, I found myself deeply pondering the impermanent essence of life. The kids played with my father, teaching him a card game they had brought from the States. Aditya pulled me aside. “Sana, this trip means more to you, doesn't it?” he asked, his voice soft. “I’ve always chased tomorrow,” I answered, “but now, I understand the beauty of today. This journey isn’t just about reconnecting with my roots; it’s a poignant reminder to cherish every moment. I wanted the kids to know where they come from, to know my parents. It's a journey back to where I began.” He wrapped his arms around me. “They’ll remember this priceless gift forever, Sana.” Our time was filled with sharing childhood tales with Deepa and Shaily, and my parents, stories of monsoon rains, of mango orchards, and of festivals filled with lights and music. I watched the childrens’ eyes widen with wonder, their hearts embracing a culture so different yet so intrinsically theirs. I watched them playing drums on my father’s tummy and my mother oiling their hair. Struggles of my life never felt so light and the joys of my existence found new meaning after sharing my heartfelt stories with my mother. Neighborhood gatherings under jasmine-scented skies brought back a flood of memories.  “You've always been a unifier, Sana,” my mother said one night, her words warming my heart and I felt that the first item in my bucket list was checked.  One evening, as we sat on the terrace, the air filled with the fragrance of jasmine, I spoke to my parents about my second item in the bucket list – owning a home.  “Papa, I've always wanted a place of my own, with a big garden. It’s my dream.” I shared, a bit hesitant. My mother squeezed my hand, “It's a beautiful dream, Beta. And dreams come true when pursued with heart.” Her encouragement was a push towards making that dream a reality, not someday, but soon. But amid the joy, the unspoken truth weighed on me. Moments passed quickly, like a silent whisper echoing in every beat of my heart. I found moments of solitude, gazing at the stars, whispering my fears and hopes into the vast, uncaring universe. In those moments of solitude, I would occasionally pause, a distant look in my eyes, as if listening to a silent countdown only I could hear. The trip to India was both exhilarating and exhausting. One day, while helping Maa make besan-ke-laddu, I felt a sudden dizziness and had to lean against her for support. “You need to see a doctor here in India. There are four months until you see your doctor in the States,” Maa advised.   “Don’t worry, it’s just the heat from the stove,”  I said, brushing off Maa’s concern, but deep down, I knew it was something more serious. The weakness in my limbs, the occasional slurring of my words – it wasn't right. A Haven for Hearts In the warm embrace of family, my aspiration to establish an old-age home took flight. Collaborating with architects and social workers, I invested my soul in every detail, envisioning a sanctuary for the forgotten. The process of opening an old age home began. The seed of this dream, planted by childhood tales of neglected elders in India, sprouted into reality. A painful memory of my Nani, lost to Alzheimer's and a tragic fate, fueled my purpose. I longed to forge a haven, not just a facility, for the autumn of life—a place of dignity and love. Aditya, ever my pillar, inquired one day, “Why an old-age home?” With conviction, I recounted Nani's ordeal, her loss amplifying my resolve.  “My Nani had Alzheimer's — just a few years after my Nana passed away. One day Nani got out of the house. Alone. Unattended. She couldn’t find her way back home. Lost, she was chased by some naughty street boys who thought she was a mad woman. A reckless jeep driver hit her, and she bled to death on the spot. She didn't even make it to the hospital. I was only ten years old at that time, but her tragedy, amidst her illness, is a wound unhealed. I dream of a haven, a safeguard against such neglect.” Tears bore witness to my resolve. Establishing this refuge was an uphill journey. In Darbhanga’s sweltering heat, I stood outside, proposals in hand, confronting bureaucratic apathy. My eyes, weary from sleepless nights spent revising plans, watched officials shuffle papers with disinterest. I listened to their objections, feeling the weight of each bureaucratic ‘no’ like a physical blow. Yet, each setback only steeled my resolve. I found myself negotiating with local leaders, my voice firm over the din of the crowded market, persuading, explaining, and sometimes pleading. The resistance of the community was palpable, but so was my determination. It reflected in the way I meticulously adapted my plans, weaving through the intricate fabric of local customs and expectations. More than a dream, this was a battle. We fought against tradition's inertia and red tape. Our weapons were heated discussions and relentless planning. The project started off as a series of meetings with architects and planners. In a meeting with Mrs. Gupta, a seasoned social worker, my passion poured forth. “It's not just about providing a roof and care, Mrs. Gupta,” I explained passionately. “I want it to be a place where they feel loved, where they can thrive in their twilight years.” Her smile, laden with wisdom, echoed my vision. “Beautiful, Sana. Let’s bring it to life.” The journey was replete with challenges—selecting a site, securing funds, ensuring a homely design, comfortable and slip-resistance bathrooms. But with each obstacle, my determination only grew. I remember one night, drained from a taxing meeting, lying on the bed, with my mother massaging my legs. Aditya noticed that. “What's wrong, Sana? Not feeling well again?” “It’s just... some days it feels like for every step forward, we take two steps back,” I sighed, feeling the weight of the project. He took my hands in his, “You’re crafting something remarkable,” he assured, his support unwavering. His words were the balm I needed.  Gradually, the old-age home began to take shape – not just as a building, but as a community, a family. I invested all my retirement funds, knowing this was my true calling. I finally opened the doors of the old age home. The second item on my bucket list also got checked. The residents came in, some hesitant, some hopeful. Listening to their stories, I discovered there was much more to their experiences than I had anticipated. It was about restoring respect and joy to those who had felt forgotten. It was a reminder of the cycle of life, of our duty to care for our elders. Mr. Sharma, our first resident, arrived with his life’s possessions in a small suitcase. “Welcome to your new home, Mr. Sharma,” I greeted, easing his uncertainty. His eyes, mirroring surprise and gratitude, spoke volumes, “It feels... warm. Thank you,” he said, his voice quivering. Watching Mr. Sharma settle in, I knew that this was more than just fulfilling a dream. I understood the profound impact of my mission—a haven where life’s evening was embraced with warmth and honor. Garden of Dreams Four months flew by. Leaving India and my parents behind, I carried the silent weight of an unspoken farewell.  We returned to the States with memories etched in our hearts and minds. life resumed with a subtle shift. The urgency that had driven me now transformed into a quiet resolve to create something lasting, to buy my own home. Shortly after returning from India, the once distant dream of homeownership began to crystallize. Aditya and I spent evenings poring over property listings, discussing what we sought in a home.  It wasn't just about the number of rooms or the size of the kitchen; it was about finding a place that felt right, a place that whispered 'home' the moment we stepped in. Our search was exhaustive and often disheartening. Houses felt too large or impersonal. One evening, as the Realtor, Aditya and I sat amidst various real estate listings scattered on our dining table, I felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. “Look at this one, Sana,” The Realtor pointed. “A big backyard for your garden.” I peered over. “The house is beautiful, but it doesn’t feel like us,” I admitted, feeling a twinge of disappointment. “What’s your  priority?” The Realtor inquired. “Near the kids' school and a large backyard,” I replied with clarity, driven by family needs. “I’m okay with a small, cozy house, but I need a big backyard where I can grow flowers, vegetables and plants of my choice. I love gardening.” “That's doable,” the Realtor assured us, smiling.  The search continued, weekends spent visiting house after house. Then, it happened. As the realtor had already assured us, we soon found several houses with the specifications I needed.  Finally we found it. A quaint house with a spacious backyard, nestled at the end of a quiet street. It felt as if the house chose us. Standing there, in what would be our future garden, I could almost hear the laughter of our children, the quiet conversations under the stars, the rustling of the leaves telling their stories. The day we found the perfect house, with a sprawling backyard, I felt a piece of my dream slot into place.  “This is it,” I said to Aditya, my voice filled with an emotion I couldn't quite name. He nodded, his eyes mirroring my feelings. Under the oak tree, our hands intertwined, he asked, “You're sure?” “More than ever,” I replied, tears brimming in my eyes. Buying the house was a milestone. The third item from my bucket finally got checked. Turning it into a home was a journey we embarked on together. The garden became my project. “Can I choose the flowers for the garden?” Deepa asked one day, her eyes bright with excitement. “Of course, sweetheart,” I said, smiling at her enthusiasm. “It’s going to be our family project.”  I wanted to create a space that reflected the beauty of life, with flowers blooming in every color, herbs that added fragrance to the air, and a small bench under the old oak tree. It was therapeutic, watching things grow, nurturing them with love and care, much like raising a family. The garden project took shape under my watchful eye. The landscapers brought my vision to life - a kaleidoscope of flowers, a patchwork of greens, and a small pool that mirrored the sky. It was my sanctuary, a living testament to my dreams. Aditya supported me every step of the way, his hands as dirty as mine as we planted, pruned, and nurtured the garden.  “It's beautiful, Sana. Just as you envisioned,” Aditya said, admiring our shared creation. The kids too found joy in the garden, their laughter mingling with the songs of birds and the rustling of leaves. It was a haven of life, a symbol of growth and resilience. One afternoon, as I lay on the sofa, Aditya walked in, a concerned look on his face. “Sana, you've been working non-stop. Are you okay? Did you revisit the doctor after coming back from India?” “Yes I did.” I looked up, his face blurring before my eyes. The doctor's words echoed in my head as I tried to process the reality.  “I'm fine, Aditya. Just tired,” I lied, forcing a smile. But as the days passed, the burden of my secret grew, a silent scream amidst our happiness. I knew I had to share my truth, yet fear of the pain it would cause, and confronting my mortality, held me back. The Revelation It was a tranquil evening. With kids away on their play dates, I finally gathered the courage. Aditya and I sat in our garden, the moon casting a gentle glow over our sanctuary. “Aditya, I need to tell you something,” I whispered, my heart pounding. How do I tell Aditya the truth? The kids? My parents? How could I shatter the peace we have built with the truth of my illness? I looked at my hands, slightly trembling, a cruel reminder of the journey ahead. I took a deep breath, the words I had rehearsed so many times suddenly elusive. “Aditya, I’m sick. The doctors say I don't have much time.” Silence enveloped us. The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Aditya's face drained of color, his eyes reflecting a pain so raw, so real. “How long?” His voice cracked. “Perhaps five more months,” I said, tears coursing down my cheeks. “Advanced neurological disorder,” The doctor had said. It's progressive and terminal.”  Earlier, I wasn't sure, but that day the diagnosis hit me like a freight train, leaving me breathless with a mix of fear and disbelief. That’s when I made the bucket list with a deadline. The pain in Aditya’s eyes mirrored my own. We clung to each other, our sobs intermingling with the evening’s quiet, the garden a silent witness to our profound truth. In the ensuing days, our life adopted a new cadence, oscillating between hope and despair. Aditya stood as my steadfast protector against the storm of emotions. Telling the kids, I witnessed confusion, sadness, and fear in their eyes. I held them close, promising to make every day count, to create memories that would outlast the pain. As days passed, I embraced life with newfound fervor. Cherishing each sunrise, every shared laughter, every tear. Our garden flourished - a vibrant symbol of our love and the life I was gradually leaving behind. Legacy of Love As illness sapped my strength, my spirit stood defiant. I often talked to my parents in India to offer solace. The construction of the old-age home was completed, resulting in a beautiful structure filled with laughter and stories. Speaking with the residents over the phone, my heart swelled with pride and joy, reflecting on the happiness the home brought to its inhabitants. Aditya and I spent evenings in our garden, talking about everything and nothing, our hands entwined, our hearts beating as one. We spoke of the future, of Deepa and Shaily, and the enduring legacy we crafted. “You’ve sculpted a masterpiece of love, Sana,” Aditya's voice trembled one evening, his eyes a reservoir of unshed emotions. A smile graced my lips, a tranquil peace enveloping me. “For us, for our lineage, for the world I relinquish,” I replied. As my time drew closer, comfort came in my family’s embrace, the garden’s bloom, and in the laughter of the residents of the old-age home. I had lived a life full of love, of dreams realized, of challenges overcome. *** I know my end is near, beneath the stars in my garden, with Aditya’s hand in mine. I look at him. My heart brims with love and gratitude, “Thank you, Aditya, for the love, life, and memories.” Tears streak his face as he kisses my forehead. “Thank you, Sana, for being my everything.” I’m leaving a legacy of love, resonating in my family, the garden’s blooms, and the old-age home’s walls. In quiet moments, I reflect. “I’ve gained more insight into life now, at its end, than ever before,” I confess to Aditya. “Clarity comes with life’s finitude.” I write letters for my family’s future milestones - to Deepa for her graduation, to Shaily for her first job, to Aditya for our next anniversary. Each letter, a piece of my heart, a way to be with them when I’m gone.. As my life’s story concludes, I realize the most profound lesson I’m leaving behind for my children isn’t in the resolutions I have achieved, but in the urgency with which I have pursued them. Life doesn’t wait. It moves swiftly, often unpredictably.  My journey, love, dreams, and legacy embody a powerful message: seize life fervently, never waiting for an elusive ‘perfect moment.’  Because, If you don't set a deadline for the resolutions in your bucket list yourself, sometimes your health will, and racing against health is far from ideal