I’ve got a problem with whisky.
And the problem is not drinking it.

I’ve got bottles in this bar that I won’t open because I can’t replace them.
But a film I watched recently has me thinking about how ridiculous that is.

In the documentary Neat, Buffalo Trace Ambassador Freddie Johnson tells a story about sharing a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle with his father and brother.

He pours a round, then starts putting the stopper back in. It’s an expensive bottle. He wants to save some for future toasts.

His father stops him. Reminds him there’ll always be more bourbon. Then tells him to look at him and his brother.

“We’re the fragile part of this whole thing.”

They spent hours talking and laughing that night as they finished that bottle of bourbon. Nine months later, his father and brother were both gone.

But this isn’t really a video about whisky. It’s about life’s fragility.

I’ve got bottles in this bar I can’t get anymore because they don’t make them anymore. This is one of them.

So I save them. Figure a few years down the road, my friend, and I will sit down right here and enjoy a drink from one.

But what am I waiting for?

One of us to get a diagnosis before we decide it’s time? Then we’ll open the good bottle?

What the hell are we thinking?

I’m preserving a forty-dollar bottle of whisky because I can’t get any more of it.

What we can’t get any more of is time.

Time to have a coffee with a friend and just talk for a few hours.

Time to listen to a parent tell a story you’ve already heard.

Time to walk the dogs and just let them sniff as long as they want to.

Because when the friend is gone, the parent is gone, the dog is gone, and the bottle is gone, the one thing that won’t fill your heart with grief and regret is the empty bottle of whisky you can’t get anymore.

We’re the fragile part. Open the bottle.