Firsts & Lasts

We remember and mark our first time experiencing many things. Many people remember their first kiss with fondness, others look back with great nostalgia at their first car or first concert. Even in the moment, there is a thrill to a “first” of anything, an anticipation before and a satisfaction after.

Lasts are marked as well, but differently. Sometimes it’s with great relief – our last day of school when we finally graduate, or the last signature needed to buy your (first?) house. Other times, it’s far more melancholy. The last time we spoke to a loved one before they left us.

When something is the first time, you know it. You’re aware of what came before, so you know your first dance is your first dance. But you rarely get to know you’re in a “last moment” while it’s happening. I’ve heard once: “At some point, your parent picked you up for the very last time.” When that happened, it probably passed without much notice to either party. Only far later does the realization have meaning and weight.

On occasion, you can cheat these – should you? My oldest daughter is 12. She’s quite tall, and I haven’t picked her up in some time. I still pick up my two younger children on occasion, but far less frequently than I used to. Without deliberate intervention, it’s possible that the last time I’ll ever pick up my oldest has already passed. But I could intervene; I could pick her up today, awkward and funny as it might be, if only to mark the occasion and know with some measure of certainty that it was, in fact, the last time. It would be odd and unnatural to force such a thing – but is that better or worse than having not marked it at all?

Every day you probably do something for the first time and something else for the last time – perhaps even the same event is both. Not all are worth marking, of course. Every moment in your life is special, but we don’t get the privilege of knowing that during most of those moments. For all I know, I could drink my last cup of coffee today. I may have seen my last sunrise, even if I live another fifty years. No eye can see the future.

I’ll mark what I can along the way. I’ll pick up my daughter. Not all moments are noteworthy, but if I believe anything, it’s that I get to decide.