Lasts
When I was younger, the phrase “you never know when it might be your last” brought to mind images of sudden, unexpected death or maiming. It was the companion phrase of “live life to the fullest”, a slogan that seemed like a dare to make risky choices. As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned that it’s much less dramatic than that. It’s the loss of tradition, the erosion of everyday things you take for granted; something you don’t realize you’ve done for the last time. These events go by unnoticed, and looking back, you won’t even remember the last time you did it. There was nothing remarkable about that final time, nothing to delineate it from the dozens or even hundreds of times you had done it before. I can’t remember the last time I gave my daughter a bath, or brushed her teeth, or helped her get dressed. At the time, I had no idea that I was relinquishing these privileges, which had often felt like chores. They simply disappeared.
During the holidays, I find myself particularly reflective upon these unknown “lasts”. I can’t remember the last time I got to sing in a Christmas choir with my mother. I don’t recall the final time I woke up in my childhood home on Christmas morning, nor my last Christmas Eve service in my hometown church. When was the last time I helped my mom decorate her tree? When did we last drive around to look at people’s gaudy Christmas lights? When did we watch the Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas special on PBS? When did we go caroling, mom’s voice carrying over all others?
When my husband and I made the decision to stop travelling for Christmas, the kids were little, and we were exhausted. My job required me to be on the road every day, often racking up as many as 1200 miles a week. The thought of packing everything in the car and driving 6 hours to not get any sleep and lie about how Santa knew where to find us seemed overwhelming at best; but I never thought it meant I’d had my “last”. Once the kids were older and Santa wasn’t a big deal, we would take them for a traditional Central New York Christmas- one where there was sure to be snow, and we would go to church and see people we actually knew, and mom’s voice would carry over all the others as we sang hymns, and my kids would understand. They would know. They would experience.
But it turns out, I’d had my last. Mom is gone. The kids never got to know. I cry trying to sing hymns at the Christmas service. I cry as I watch the tabernacle choir on PBS. I cry every time White Christmas comes on the radio, recalling my grandfather’s deep bass sounding like Bing Crosby. I mourn the lasts I didn’t know I’d had.
I wistfully hang the ornaments my mom gave me. I point out gaudy lights to the kids. I continue the traditions she created for us: crispy bacon and gooey cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning; taking turns opening stocking presents one by one. I have classical Christmas music playing in the background, scavenger hunts for gifts with directions set to a Christmas song melody. I try to recreate the magic that she created for my sister and me, hopeful that my kids will look back on their Christmases with as much love and nostalgia as I do. What I wouldn’t give to have just one last traditional Christmas with my mom- to appreciate it for all that it was. All I can do, instead, is focus on making sure I’m appreciating the possible “lasts” in my own home. It could be the last year of believing in Santa for my youngest. It could be the last time the kids are so excited that they get up early. It could be the last time they want to decorate cookies with me, or read the books under the book tree, or watch Charlie Brown or hang their advent calendars.
As each year passes and we approach more “lasts”, I will endeavor to be aware and appreciative of life’s gifts, big and small, and I will epitomize “last’s” companion phrase. I will live life to the fullest, particularly focusing on the small, seemingly insignificant moments, just in case one of them… is a last.
