The Last Time

Have you ever wondered when you did something for the last time? Like, when was the last time you drove that yellow sports car before your friend totaled it? When was the last time you rode a tricycle? Or a bicycle? When did your acne stop? Or when did you give your baby his last bottle? When didn't Janey need diapers any more at night? The time you had hiccoughs, did you suddenly realize they had stopped, but you were unaware of and couldn't remember the last one?

Sometimes we know when things terminate. We usually can recall the evening Aunt Sally's visit ended and we said "good-bye" to her at the airport. Everyone seemed to be crying. Or we can pinpoint the day Uncle John had his accident.

And sometimes we distinctly say to ourselves, "This is the last time I'll be walking down these halls." Or, "This is the last evening I'll be l8 years old."

Then there are times when we may be vaguely aware of the fact that we are in the process of a "last." After spending 3 weeks with my ailing mother, I had to leave. Though she was much improved, yet her 77 years made for an uncertain future. And my home was eight thousand miles away in Tokyo. As I reached the door of her hospital room after a tender good-bye, I deliberately turned and looked at her lying there in her white hospital clothes. I was quite sure that it was a final look. It was. She passed away a week later.

Another time I remember walking through our upstairs hallway thinking, "This is the last night all my 4 boys will be sleeping in their own rooms for some time." Morning was to be a parting time and when crossing an ocean is involved, it's no small matter.

Other times we plan a "last." "Let's get together once more before Jeff leaves," we might say. Or we invite friends over for dinner before they move away.

Usually, though, the "lasts" slip by unnoticed. Nothing warns us. Nobody screams, "Hey, you're doing this for the last time!" Or, "You'll never see that again."

You come home one day to find that the next-door neighbors have moved out. So trivial. But still you wonder when you saw little Jerry's bike out front the last time. Or heard Ann, the loud, happy teen-ager yell, "Everybody, I'm home!" like she always did.

At 17 when I went away to school, we used lamps. When I came home for vacation, electricity had moved in to the country area where we lived. I wonder when I lit the lamp for the last time. Or washed the sooty glass chimney. Or saw a bug fly into the mantle on the lamp.

On the farm we had to get up early and pick raspberries when they were in season. Mosquitoes were bad sometimes and we really didn't enjoy the procedure all that much. In time the raspberry bushes all froze out. I wonder when was the last time we kids and Mom geared ourselves up against the biting pests and filled buckets of the red berries.

Last times are often scheduled, but we've forgotten them, too. What adult remembers the last day of fourth grade? Or even the last time you slid your feet under your desk as a graduating high school senior?

Like it or not, we must contend with lasts. As a part of growing up. Of changing. Of just plain life. Far from being a morbid preoccupation, the thought of lasts should be directed toward ourselves and toward our relationship with others. Life moves on and certainly one day will be out last. We should prepare for it.

This week a storekeeper told me that his wife recently died after being hit by a car. Little did I realize when I saw her for the first time a few months ago, happily working in the store, that I was also seeing her for the last time.

Certainly keeping in mind the possibility of lasts should make us more thoughtful. More considerate. Will others remember us because we cared and took time to help? Not all the lasts have happened yet. We have chances to affect them by our daily living.