In the neighbourhood, we think of him as a sometime gardener out watering the freshly planted flowers, ready for a neighbourly chat. Or, like many of us, fighting the ravages of age with early-morning walks meant to offset the indulgences the rest of the day might bring.

When Richard Bradshaw dropped dead of a heart attack at the Toronto airport while returning home from vacation, a gaping hole opened in Canada’s arts community, in the Canadian Opera Company, of which he was conductor and general director, in our neighbourhood and in the hearts of his family.

Richard was larger than life, with a risk-taker’s appetite for life. He was warm and sociable and he always seemed to be delighted with life — despite the challenges it threw his way. And getting Canada a world-class opera house — in the form of the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts — certainly had its challenges. Yet he did it, with grace and unwavering determination and, I’m sure, a good deal of wining and dining.

He was so full of life, it is hard to think of him bereft of life.

It certainly makes you take stock. At least, that was the immediate effect Richard’s death had on my husband, Norm.

Norm, like Richard, is 63. Norm, like Richard, has packed on a few pounds over the years, no doubt helped along by a love of telling a good story with a wineglass in hand. And taking care of his health has never been Norm’s top priority — as my daughters and I have each pointed out.

And since, deep in our souls, we all feel untouched by age, it is hard to accept that someone your age is suddenly gone. Sixty-three is so young to die. Especially when you’re 63.

As Norm has admitted, Richard’s sudden death forced him to contemplate his own mortality.

I’m convinced this is an exercise we should all undertake more often. I was forced to look at death on a little more intimate terms when I was first diagnosed with cancer. It made me think about what it would be like not to be here to offer emotional and financial support to my daughters as they make their way in life. What about the grandchildren I might never meet?

Or, what if I never again saw the setting sun cast its rosy glow on snow-capped mountains? Or the early-morning sun make diamonds of light on the lake during my daily walks with my dogs?

In fact, how would my dogs get to the beach for those morning walks?

Maybe if we stopped more often to think about all the things we have to lose, we might appreciate more fully the things we do have.

If there is anything I have learned over the years, it is that life is full of the unexpected, including death. You can’t put off the things that matter to you — the quiet time spent with loved ones, keeping in touch with friends, watching the morning sun flash off the breasts of the swallows wheeling about overhead.

You can’t put it off until tomorrow because there might not be a tomorrow.

I’m sure the eulogy at Richard’s funeral will list his many accomplishments, a testament to a life well lived. As one neighbour said, he went out at the top of his game.

I know it is a well-worn cliché to urge people to live each day as if it were their last. Or, to pull out another time-worn truism, to stop and smell the roses. But there is wisdom in those sayings.

Think about life — and think about death. And live each day with love and warmth and laughter. You never know what tomorrow will bring.

TESSA WILMOTT, EDITOR-IN CHIEF