Something you only begin to realize once you hit a certain age is how bittersweet it is that, in most circumstances, we’re almost never aware of the last times. If we knew - while in the moment - that it would flee us so suddenly, there’s no doubt we’d get a little closer, listen a little longer, hold on a little tighter, let go a little slower. Still, the beauty of it all is we’re continually offered up new moments while we almost don’t even see “the last times” roll by.
This beautiful post this morning echoed some of my own thoughts lately when she asks:
when was the last time my father put me on his shoulders? did he know it would be the last time?
when was the last time i slept in the same bed with my big sister - talking late into the night and laughing at the silliest things?
what was the last bedtime story my Grandma read me?
when was the last time i caught a night train? took a midnight swim in the ocean? slept outside in a hammock? will i ever do those things again?