The Last Time

I remember the last time I stepped into my childhood home. The furniture was gone and I knew that an era was over. I walked through the house. I tried to soak in each room, absorbing the feeling each one. I remembered what it was like to hear my father laugh. It was over. I walked away, locked the door and knew it was the last time. I wrote that message on my heart and my head.

Last times happen all the time. I don’t always know that I’m living a ‘last time.’ Of course, I remember the last time I was in each of my schools. Graduation punctuates the experience and draws the line that must be crossed; the last time.

Sometimes the most important ‘last times’ happen without ceremony. I don’t remember the last time I nursed a baby. I don’t know the last time I picked up one of my children and held her in my arms. It sneaked past me and was gone. The treasured feeling of holding a child in my arms and providing comfort. It went unnoticed, unannounced. The last night both my daughters slept in my house. I didn’t know that summer was the last summer I’d have both my girls with me.

I didn’t know.

I would have absorbed the moment. I would have stayed up 5 minutes more to soak up the sounds of their laughter.

I didn’t know.

There was a last hug from my father, a last conversation, a last smile. When was the last time we sat and laughed? It slipped past me and I couldn’t appreciate it. I would have hung on longer. I would have tried to memorize the feeling. I guess I always thought there would be more.

I didn’t know.

I have learned that ‘last times ‘ sneak into your life. It can take years to notice, or just seconds. My last conversation with my mom; the last time I could recount the events of my day, is a mystery to me. The last time, Grace smiled at me and said something relevant, selfless or supportive. I know it’s gone, but when did it leave? When was exact last moment? Where were we? Why didn’t I savor it?’

I just did not know.