On the afternoon of August 1st, 1979 I received the most profound phone call of my life: I was informed that my sister, Maureen, had died (b. 1951).

The first thing that flashed to my mind was, She never knew how much I loved her. My newly minted brother-in-law, otherwise a kind of a macho swaggin', loud-mouthed, Porsche-drivin', USC graduatin', too handsome rake – exactly the kind of guy my beautiful sister would fall for – said, from a part of him I'd hadn't known existed before: She knew you loved her, brother. Where the f--k did that come from? It was exactly what I needed to hear in that moment.

I understand the feeling of that Saugus High School teenager messaging their mother from a live-shooting event. If I've nothing else to say, I want them to know how much I loved them.

In those flashing moments we sometimes get to consider life, the first thing – above everything else – that comes to you is wanting those you loved to know what they meant to you. Everything else is bulls--t.

The lesson for all of us is: Don't wait till then. Tell them now. Maureen never heard it from 19 y.o. me. I can only hope she knew.

(And if that text below doesn't make you weep big tears, then f--k you. You're dead inside.)