i wonder how many things ive already done for the last time
I wonder how many things I’ve already done for the last time.
Not the important things.
Those usually get goodbyes.
I mean the ordinary ones.
There was a last time I was picked up and carried and neither of us knew I had gotten too big for it.
A last time I played with a childhood toy before putting it down and simply never picking it up again.
A last sleepover with someone I once thought I’d know forever.
A last time I called a place home.
I couldn’t tell you when any of them happened.
That bothers me a little.
I always imagined endings would feel like endings.
Instead, most things seem to leave in the middle of an ordinary day.
No warning.
No reason to pay attention.
You just do something the way you’ve done it a hundred times before,
except there isn’t a hundred and first.
And now I wonder what ordinary thing I did today that I’ll never do again.
I suppose I won’t know.
That’s the trouble with last times.
They usually look exactly like all the other times.