Lasts

We always talk about firsts, but it's the lasts

I only dream of my childhood home.

Every time I’m at home in one of my dreams, it’s always my childhood home. Doesn’t matter who is there, or what stage of my life the dream is about, I’m always in that home. That home was sold 20 years ago, but I still picture it vividly in my dreams. I could describe every inch of it if you asked me to, from the closet of my mother’s room to the garage.

My mother is dying.

Everywhere my mother is is home. Whether it’s the condo she moved into when she relocated to Florida after selling our home, or the retirement community home she lives in now. The knick knacks, the photos, the very smell of her makes it home. I haven’t figured out yet how to make peace with no more home.

She’s gone now, but she’s still here. I can hold her and she still knows I’m there and can even talk to us. But most things about her that are “mom” are already gone. And I find myself trying to memorize the last place that will be home. The knick-knacks, the smells, the way she has her photos on her fridge.

I’m thankful for this day. This last Thanksgiving day, I guess.

But it’s not the firsts that you remember. It’s the lasts.