There will come a day

There will come a day when it’s the last time I do each of the things that make up a life.

Some of these I will know at that very moment it’s the last time.  Others I might suspect.  For some, I won’t realize that last day came and went until long afterwards, if at all. 

For some, I hold out hope that it’s not the last time; for others, I’m resigned to the truth that never again will it happen for me. 

For some things, I’ll be glad.  For others, I’ll realize that I’m not so glad as I thought I’d be. 

Yes, some of these have happened and I don’t know it.  Others have happened and I do.  Some I sadly suspect have come and gone, one final time. 

Some of these depend on whether I die suddenly or go out in a gradual fade.  Getting on in years plays a role for many of them, physical limitations and all that.  Blind luck or blind bad luck plays its part in others.  Some of these finalities are infinitely sad; others not such a big deal in the reckoning of a life.  

There will come a last day for the things that make up a life.

There will come the day when I make love to a woman for the last time.  Tie my own shoes.  Buy a new pair of shoes.   

A last time I bench press more than 200 pounds.  Do a sit-up, pull-up, or push-up. 

See and smell a forest.  Stare in stunned awe at a giant redwood tree.

A final camping trip and the smell of bacon cooked over a campfire.  A last visit to Disneyland and the childhood joy it epitomizes at any age.

Lie in a hammock on a summer’s eve and listen to the crickets’ song.  See a firefly bob in the thick summer’s air.   

Drive a car.  Fly in a plane.  Take a boat ride.

See the smile of a child and smile back, making both our days, both our lives. 

There will come a day that I go to the bathroom by myself for the last time, make my own meal, read a book, reread a favorite book, watch a movie, witness a sunset.  Do a load of laundry.     

For each of my favorite songs there will come a day that I listen to it and never do so again.   

The last day I run, hike, ride a bike, or walk.  The last day I swim.  The last day I jump off a diving board.  Hear a thunderclap, feel a pelting rain, have my face kissed by a falling snowflake.    

There will be a last tear I shed.  A last laugh.  Perhaps a last smile, though I hope this is at the very end of life and not much sooner than that.

A last time I help a child carve a pumpkin, color an Easter egg, build a gingerbread house, sign a Mother’s Day card. Tell someone I love them.  Send flowers.  Write a syrupy poem.  A last romance.  A last goodnight kiss at the end of a date.  A last hug done with meaning.  A last gift chosen with loving care for someone.    

Color a picture with a child.  Put a puzzle together.  Watch the Twinkle Twinkle Little Star video with my niece or another child.  Bake cookies.  Eat pizza, a hamburger, a hot dog.

Cotton candy.

Pet a cat and feel its happy purr.     

There will come a last time I curse, write a short story or novel, ponder a deep thought.  Compute an integral.

A last time I visit the grave of Amy Wang, attend a Garden of Innocence funeral service, help Rana Afghanipour, and curse the gods for what happened to Amy and Rana and the abandoned babies. 

Sit in front of a fire on a cold winter’s night, make a snowman, throw a snowball, suck on an icicle.  Listen to the muffled silence in the unstirred morning after a late-night snowfall.  See my breath on a frosty morning. 

A last spring, summer, winter, and fall.

As I said, some of these have already passed and I don’t yet know it…maybe I’ve already made my last snowman and did so long ago. 

Play hide-and-seek with a child and marvel at the shrieks of delight.

My last Thanksgiving dinner.  My last Christmas morning and the laughter of children opening presents.  The last time I wrap Christmas presents, and a last present of all that is unwrapped.  The last time I sit in front of a live Christmas tree and revel contentedly at the myriad ornaments collected over a lifetime, the dancing lights, and smell that most wonderful of smells.

The last time I hold the hand of a trusting child, dart amongst the shoreline tide and its foamy reach, pick my way over the rocks across a stream.  Study a tide pool.

The last time I get out of bed on my own, and perhaps a final time to get out of bed with assistance.

So many of these are taken for granted, not realized for the infinite wealth they represent, the humanness and all-importance, that they are life and life is them.

There will come a last time I shed a tear for Rana and tell the kids I love them.  I hope that’s on the last day of my life, so that one last time will live for eternity.

A last day I think of such thoughts and write them down.

A last day you will read them.