We all remember our first kiss. We usually remember our first kiss with a specific person. But nobody remembers the last kiss with that person.
Then I stumbled upon this anonymous picture collage of a girl, taken on the first day of Kindergarten and last day of medical school.
I remember when I first had my daughter and I had to go to Vons to buy diapers. This was on the morning after she was born. The bag of diapers cost over $10, which was a fortune 28 years go for my little salary. I remember walking back to the car and doing the math, thinking how many years of diapers I’d be buying before “the baby” grew out of them. Ironically, while I remember those first diapers, I do not recall the last one. Suddenly that part of life was over.
It was the same when I first dropped the kids off at school. Facing 13 or 14 years of taking them to school seemed incomprehensibly long. It was special to be taking them to school. I wish I had taken a first and last photograph, but I didn’t. Then, suddenly, that last day of school for my younger child happened – over 8 years ago, and now that whole phase is in the distant past.
Marking time segments highlights the transience of our lives. And we seldom know when the last of something occurs.
It just happens, and then it’s gone.