What You're Not Told

No one tells you when you're about to do something for the last time. There's no official notice just before the last time you breast feed your baby. They don't let you know that after a certain day, your daughter will be too big to cradle in your arms. The last bottle, the last jar of baby food, crawling, dressing your kid. It's all in your rear view mirror before you realize the last time is already complete. At least with Keira, it's only bittersweet. For each thing she stops doing, it's because she's now doing something new, and you get to celebrate all those new things. 

Yesterday, my Godmother passed away. The last time I saw her, I didn't know it would be the last time I saw her. I feel like I wish I'd known, but I don't know what I would have done, or said, differently. I don't know if that would have tainted the last visit. 

We were up to see my parents this fall and went over for a visit. Several of us went out on a quick boat ride. I remember watching her walking away from the dock as we set off, and thinking that I was glad she was there because she'd had a rough bout with cancer. Before we left, she gave me a quick tour around their house, which I'd not yet seen. I remember seeing a dressing table heavily adorned with wigs and hoping that she was almost ready to give them up. I gave her a big hug before we left. No one lets you know that it's the last one.