Christmas Day is almost over. The house is asleep, and I’m left sitting quietly with the news that my aunt has just died.
There’s something quietly disarming about the timing. Not tragic in the theatrical sense—just precise. Almost considerate. As though she’d chosen a moment already heavy with meaning, rather than adding weight to an ordinary day. After all, when you’ve lived through 101 Christmases, you may feel entitled to pick your exit.
The Japanese have a phrase I’ve always liked: ichi-go ichi-e. Roughly translated, it means “one time, one meeting.” The idea is that every encounter is unrepeatable—not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s fleeting. Even if you meet the same person every day for decades, today’s version of that meeting will never happen again.
I was reminded of this tonight, when I learned that my aunt has died. She was 101 and a half years old—an age so precise it tells you something important already. She was still living independently until this month, which feels less like defiance and more like quiet competence. She didn’t rage against time; she simply kept showing up.
We tend to think of longevity as a numbers game. Years lived. Candles counted. Records broken. But ichi-go ichi-e suggests a better metric: moments honored. And my aunt, in her very particular way, seemed to understand this instinctively.
She was unique—not in a loud, performative way, but in the far rarer sense of being unmistakably herself. The sort of person who doesn’t optimize for attention, approval, or efficiency. She had her own pace, her own rules, and an independence that wasn’t announced—it was assumed. There are a few that would deem that irrational. I call it admirable.
What fascinates me is how badly modern systems misunderstand people like her. We design life around averages, predictions, and shortcuts. She lived as an exception—alert to small pleasures, unhurried, and stubbornly human. While the rest of us chased convenience, she mastered sufficiency. While we rushed toward frictionless living, she seemed to understand that a little friction is what keeps you upright.
Every conversation with her now feels like ichi-go ichi-e in retrospect. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was ordinary—and therefore irreplaceable. A voice on the phone. A familiar opinion. A moment that didn’t announce its importance at the time.
That’s the trick, of course. Life rarely labels its most valuable experiences clearly. It doesn’t say, “Pay attention, this will matter later.” It just hands you a Tuesday afternoon with a 101-year-old woman who has quietly outlived almost everything except her sense of self, and sense of humor.
There’s something profoundly reassuring about that. Not the longevity alone, but the way she occupied time rather than fought it. She didn’t treat life as something to be hacked or hurried through. She treated it as something to be met—once, fully, and without rehearsal.
Which brings us back to ichi-go ichi-e. One time. One meeting. One aunt like her. Entirely unrepeatable.
And if we’re lucky, we notice—even if only afterward—that we were in the presence of something special.
To my Aunt, thank you for the inspiration, given so quietly and so generously. You will be missed, more than words can manage.
With thanks, and with love. God bless.
P