Sand Through My Fingers

In silent reverence
I grab a handful
Of loose, dry sand,
And watch
As the grains spill
From between
My fingers.
When the sand
Ceases to fall,
All that remains
Are the grains
That cling
To my skin,
A minute fraction
Of the millions
I originally held.
That is the way
It is with life.
Of all the people
I chance to meet,
And the experiences
I have had
Along the way,
Multitudes
Spill from my grasp
Like sand
Through my fingers,
Yet only a few
Stick to my skin
Long enough
For me to notice.
How much of life
Must I be missing?