The Last Times
We are very good at noticing first times. A child’s first word. The first day of school. A first job. A first kiss. We take pictures, celebrate, and mark those moments because we know they are beginnings.
However, we almost never notice last times. There was a last time I carried one of my children in my arms. I can’t remember when it was. I simply put them down one day, as I had done hundreds of times before, without knowing I would never pick them up that way again.
There was a last bedtime story. A last time we played certain games with my brothers or with my children. A last conversation with someone I loved. A last ordinary day that, looking back, wasn’t ordinary at all.
And maybe that is what moves me most: I was there, but I didn’t know I was saying goodbye to anything.
Life rarely tells us when a chapter is closing. Things simply change. Children grow. People move. Traditions fade. We change too. And one day we realize that something that once seemed permanent has quietly become a memory.
I don’t think the lesson is to hold on tighter. Life is supposed to move forward. Children are supposed to grow, circumstances to change, and new chapters to begin. I guess the lesson is simply to notice a little more while they are here.
To stay at the table a few minutes longer. To enjoy the noise in the house instead of wishing for quiet. To listen to the familiar story one more time. To be there, really there, for the ordinary moments we assume will repeat themselves forever.
Because perhaps a beautiful life is not only made of unforgettable moments. Perhaps it is also made of ordinary moments we were present enough to remember.
