Last Times

I can’t remember the last time I remembered a “last time.”

I was visiting my family, leaving my sister’s new house in Dallas to head back home to my apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Mouthful—at least, it strikes me as such. I’m not from Texas or New York, yet somehow, I’ve forgotten the zip code of the house I was born in, the street where my hundred-year-old Catholic school stood, and the bark of our late dog, Benny. I had a “last time” for all these things, but I couldn’t tell you what it was like. I don’t know if I even recognized those moments as they were culminating—if I tried to tuck them into the pocket of a pair of jeans I later donated, memories lost to some big blue bin in a warehouse miles away.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten Mills Avenue, the lavender walls and zebra sheets, splinters from docks, the thick humidity upon exiting the Orlando International Airport, Jeremiah’s Italian Ice, dinner at 4 PM after lacrosse practice, or patting my cat Kevin’s butt at his request. It’s that I don’t remember the last time I drove down Mills with nowhere to go, testing my vocals in the privacy of my first car. I don’t remember the last time I slept in my room with lavender walls and zebra sheets, dangled my legs over a warm lake, or complained about my frizzy hair and sticky neck. I couldn’t tell you the last flavor of Italian ice I ate or meal my mom made and saran wrapped. And something that stings a little more than all of that—I can’t remember the last time I kissed Kevin goodbye. All I know is that I didn’t think it was going to be the last time.

Now, standing with my small carry-on suitcase in my sister’s new home in Dallas, I absorb it all. The big white cloud couch that always splits apart. The Church of Christ Scientist, just beyond her backyard. The woven jut cotton rug. 

I can’t help but fear the notion of a “last time.” 

I have begun memorializing everything I encounter. I can’t seem to help it. I know, logically, that this hyper-awareness is likely an adverse effect of lifelong anxiety, but part of me also longs for the beauty in a “last time.” Knowing—accepting—that everything must have a conclusion makes romance more exciting, love more enduring, homes more comforting, passions more thrilling, and ourselves more daring.

I’d be lying if I said I regret not remembering the last time I took a math quiz. I wouldn’t wish a math quiz upon anyone. But I wouldn’t be telling the truth if I said I felt impartial about the endings of my past encounters. 

People always say the most important part is the journey, not the end—

But isn’t it in these last times that we find solace, knowing there are so many more to come?