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Every now and then, you catch it—right in the middle of the moment—the quiet realization that this is the last time.
Not in a dramatic way. There’s no theatrical background music swelling, no slow-motion goodbye. It’s usually something small. A familiar smell. The way the afternoon light filters through the back windows around 5 p.m. The sound of the front door creaking open, which you’ve heard a hundred times before.
You’re settled into a comfy wicker chair on the back patio, legs curled up underneath you, a mug of coffee resting on the arm. The cushion’s a little sun-faded from years of being sat in and exposed to the mountain summer rays. There’s a soft breeze, the smell of pine trees, maybe a faint crackle of an old country song playing from someone’s phone. It’s peaceful in the most familiar and comforting way. And yet—you know. Somewhere deep in your chest, there’s a gentle ache that whispers, “This is it, this is the last time.”
And then come the memories. Oh my gosh, so many memories. You remember the grand-babies practicing walking along the edge of the giant coffee table in the family room, the birthday celebrations that continued into the next morning, the long holiday dinners that turned into late-night board games with someone always cheating to win (Jay).
You think about the heat from the roaring fireplace, the world’s most perfect hammock out back, the strong a** coffee on cool July mornings, and being wrapped in the coziest Patagonia blankets all winter long (from Costco, you should absolutely get one if you can). They show up at once, warm, and a little bittersweet. All the moments, scattered across the years like breadcrumbs, suddenly feel so heavy with meaning—because now, you’re holding them…for the last time.
There’s something that’s so precious about getting to know when something is happening for the last time. Especially since most of life’s lasts seem to slip by completely unnoticed—until much later on when you look back and go, oh. That was it. The last time we were all together around that enormous log table. The last time I made a huge pan of baked French toast that didn’t get eaten. The last time I followed my grand-baby up the crazy (and slightly dangerous) log stairs while he bear-crawled because he was too scared (and too little) to stand up all the way.
But every once in a while, you’re lucky enough to see the ending while you’re still in the middle of it. And that changes everything. You sit a little longer. You laugh a little harder. You find yourself memorizing things without even meaning to—the way the log in the kitchen jets out naturally (like an indoor tree) and curves around to almost touch the ceiling, the chipped stoneware mug you always reach for first because it keeps your coffee hot the longest, the feel of the real wood floor beneath your feet, the way the pine trees smell after an afternoon rainstorm.
It’s not that you’re trying to be sentimental, necessarily. It just happens. You slow down. You appreciate. You just…soak it all in, because you know it’s all you can do.
I think it’s one of the kindest tricks life plays on us—offering us the chance to notice the endings. To give them a little nod. To say, thank you for this. I really loved it here (and I have).
…But, now it’s time to move on.
Have you ever realized when something was happening for the last time—while you were still in it?
