I wonder when the last time was that I went outside to play with my friends.
Not the last time I saw them, or the last time we spoke. I mean the last time we were kids, running around the neighbourhood, riding our bikes, getting into trouble, and doing whatever we could to keep ourselves entertained until somebody’s mother called us home for supper.
I couldn’t tell you when that was. I remember plenty of afternoons like it, some better than others. But somewhere along the way, there was one final afternoon when we all went home, put our bikes away, and never did it again. We didn’t know that, of course. We probably assumed we’d be back at it the next day.
I’ve been thinking about how often that must happen in our lives. How many things have we done for the last time without having the slightest idea?
At some point, I picked up a favourite childhood toy for the last time. I don’t remember putting it down or deciding I was too old for it. I just stopped playing with it.
There was a last time I slept in my childhood bedroom. A last time I sat around a table with certain people. A last time I visited a place that no longer exists, or spoke to someone I haven’t seen in twenty years. I remember some of those people and places quite well, but I couldn’t tell you when those final moments happened.
It’s a strange thing, really. We make such a fuss over firsts; our first steps, first words, first kisses, first jobs. We take pictures, celebrate, and tell stories about them for years afterwards. And rightfully so, I suppose. But the last times? Most of them don’t even get a passing mention.
Of course, some endings are obvious. We know when we’re leaving a job or moving out of a house. We might even spend weeks preparing ourselves for it. There’s a chance to say goodbye, take one last look around, and acknowledge that something is coming to an end. Most of the time, though, life doesn’t bother giving us that opportunity.
I don’t remember thinking much about any of this when I was younger. I suppose I had no reason to. But now that I’m watching my own son grow up, it’s become a little harder to ignore.
He’s growing up at a ridiculous pace, and while I’m happy to see him becoming more independent, I sometimes find myself wondering what I’ve already missed.
There was a time when he needed to be carried everywhere. Now he’s quite capable of getting around on his own, usually at a speed that makes me question whether he has any concern for his own safety.
He still wants to be picked up now and then, especially when he’s tired. But one day he won’t.
And there will be a last time I carry him.
I probably won’t recognize it when it happens. I’ll pick him up, carry him wherever he needs to go, and put him down again. Nothing unusual about it. I might even complain about how heavy he’s getting.
Then, at some point in the future, I’ll realize I haven’t carried him in years.
There will be other things, too. The last time he asks me to read him a bedtime story (a rarity as it is). The last time he wants me to hold his hand. The last time he comes running to show me something that, to an adult, is completely unremarkable but, to him, is the greatest discovery in human history.
I don’t particularly enjoy thinking about those things coming to an end.
But I also wouldn’t want him to stay little forever. Watching him grow up is one of the great pleasures of being his father. I want him to become independent. I want him to find his own interests, make friends, and experience things without needing me there every step of the way.
I suppose that’s the awkward part of it. You can look forward to something and still be a little sad about what you’re leaving behind.
I imagine there are plenty of other things in my life that I’ll feel the same way about someday. Places I visit, people I see, routines I’ve followed for years. Some will end because of circumstances beyond my control. Others will simply disappear as my interests and priorities change.
For all I know, I might already have done something for the last time this week.
I could spend the rest of my life trying to identify these moments before they happen, but I suspect that would make me absolutely miserable. Imagine treating every cup of coffee with a friend as though it might be your final meeting, or every ordinary Sunday afternoon as something that needs to be carefully preserved.
It sounds exhausting.
Besides, not every ending deserves to be mourned. There are plenty of things I’ve done for the last time that I’m perfectly happy never to experience again. Some jobs, certain mistakes, and a few questionable decisions from my younger years can stay exactly where they belong.
But there are others I’d gladly go back and experience once more. Another ordinary afternoon with my childhood friends. Another evening in a house I used to call home. Another conversation with someone I didn’t realize I was saying goodbye to.
Nothing special would need to happen. I’d just like to be there again, knowing what I know now. Then again, perhaps knowing would spoil it.
I don’t think we’re meant to spend our lives keeping track of every ending. There’s something to be said for going about our business without worrying whether every little thing will happen again.
Still, thinking about all this has made me pay a little more attention to the things I do have. I can’t go back and recognize all those moments I’ve already missed, and I certainly can’t predict the ones still to come.
But maybe the next time my son asks me to pick him up, I won’t be quite so quick to remind him how heavy he’s getting.
I’ll probably still tell him, though.
He really is getting heavy. My back is killing me…
Featured photograph by Josie Weiss, via Unsplash. Used under the Unsplash License.
