The Lasts

It's funny how someone's firsts is always another's lasts.

Church services have become rituals of my melancholy.

I sit and cry and think about the last time that she sat two seats down from me.

And while she visits the new library for the first time,

I try to remember the last time I stopped in at the café to say hi.

That's the problem with lasts.

You don't realize they are the lasts until it's too late.

Erik and I have been discussing death much too often these days.

This morning I woke up to his arms wrapped tightly around me.

"Don't die," we tell each other every day before he leaves for work.

I have told him to make sure that a funeral director never touches my body.

And then we sit, staring at each other, thinking of ways we could potentially die.

Trying to count "lasts" is exhausting.

In the end, we just have to be grateful for every moment as it comes and begin to keep our very own list of firsts. Keep short accounts with people and always say "I love you" as they walk out the door. You just never know what moment might be a "last."

~A