Yesterday I said goodbye to my cousin Edwin.

His heart gave out one Sunday afternoon, unexpectedly, while he was doing one of the things he loved most, bike-riding. His friend tried to revive him on the spot, hoping to buy time for an ambulance to the hospital. But it was only enough to keep him alive in the technical sense. He sat motionless in a coma at UCLA medical for nearly a week, until it was his time to go.

Ed was in his late fifties, had no signs of ill health. He was a phenomenal athlete by all accounts. He loved life and the people who lived it with him. And he still had so much to offer.

Life can be cruel that way.

One thing about funerals. They're hard enough as it is. It's harder still when it's family, and when you have to conduct the service, hoping to find the right words to say. Trying your best to hold it together on stage.

Someone once told me you can prepare the words, but not the emotions. I thought I was doing fine. But then came the video tribute. I wasn't prepared for the images. He and his wife. His two kids, growing up from toddlers to young adults. He with his mother Daisy, and his father Maurice—my uncle whom I had to bury only a year ago.

The holidays have a weird way of amplifying what's already there, whether joy or sadness. For me, this season, it's a mix of both. It's gratitude for the moments I get to have. It's also mourning for the ones whose memories will never be.

Ed's gone, but he's in a better place. And his memory lives on.

This all reminds me, once again, that tomorrow is not guaranteed. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. I suppose every breath we take is also one that just expired.

Make the most of every moment. Milk it for what it’s worth.