that’s the problem with lasts

“If you’re sure, I’m getting rid of these,” Chris told Harper as he walked toward the garage holding her training wheels.

“Yep, I’m sure,” she replied.

It was a Thursday evening, after dinner, and before it started cooling off for the day. It felt sticky and humid after a few days of unseasonable cooler June weather. The girls were riding their bikes around the driveway when Harper requested her training wheels off.

In seconds, Chris had removed the small back wheels and Harper took off.

No hesitation. No fear. No stumbles. Her daddy held on to the back of her seat, took off running next to her as she peddled, and when he let go, she confidently rode to the end of the driveway, turned into the grass, and made her way back to us.

I didn’t realize that Thursday was the last day a Graham child would need training wheels.

We are officially done with trikes, training wheels, bike carriers full of sleeping children, and tiny, short legs pumping hard on a Big Wheel.

It was our last day with training wheels, and I didn’t give it the attention it deserved.

That’s the problem with lasts, you never know it’s actually the end until it’s too late.

Last month my grandma had her family reunion. We weren’t able to go–we were in Michigan camping–but the Kimery family gathered to catch up, meet new members, talk about their losses. And one big loss for our family was my grandpa. Last year he attended the reunion, ate the fried chicken, and laughed with the remaining siblings of my grandma.

Every reunion a Kimery child (like my grandma) will pose with her family, children and spouses, grandchildren and spouses, and all the great-grandchildren. For some, there might even be great-great-grandchildren. My grandma is one of twelve. That leads to big family reunions.

After the weekend was over, my aunt posted  this year’s family picture and last year’s family picture to Facebook. The glaring difference was my grandpa. His wide smile, his big ears, his huge personality.

I wish I would have known it was his last reunion. I wish I had known in one month he would be gone.

The days are slow, but the years are fast. I hate cliches, but there is truth in many of them.

Last Christmas as we gathered in Ohio to celebrate Christmas with Chris’ family, his uncle was taking a lot of pictures. Maybe more than normal. His daughter–Chris’ cousin–made a comment about it, saying something about how many pictures he wanted.

His response, quietly so the whole room couldn’t hear was well, you just never know.

We all stood for a beat longer than normal taking that in. Then we moved on with the holiday festivities. I felt it hard and tender–his comment–as we were wading through the first Christmas without my grandpa. As we were navigating Chris’ grandpa being moved to assisted living and having to be brought home for Christmas dinner.

That’s the problem with lasts, you never know it’s actually the end until it’s too late.

I don’t remember the last diaper I changed, the last bottle I gave my daughters. I don’t remember the last conversation I had with my grandpa, the last meal we shared together.

They weren’t important in that moment. They weren’t anything but another day in a busy week, another moment to get through so we could get to the end of the day, the meal, the task.

But they were lasts.

And I forgot to pause and acknowledge them. I forgot to remember them. I forgot to quiet for them.

Last weekend we sat on the curb in front of one of the two gas stations in our small town. As floats, tractors, and donkeys passed by in the annual summer parade, I pulled my hat down low and just cried. I cried for my grandpa who loved small town life, loved the people, loved the community. I cried for the day because last year, this was his last full day alive–the Saturday of Derby Days–and the next morning we were rushing to the hospital to pray and say goodbye.

It had been a year since he passed away.

When we moved here in January, my grandma told me my grandpa would have been so happy to know we moved here. He loved small-town life and, more specifically, this small-town life. She was sad he never saw this.

Sitting at the parade on Saturday, warm sun on my face and the sounds of kids screeching for candy as the floats passed, I couldn’t help but think of my grandpa. Those were his friends driving by on tractors. Those were his neighbors lining the streets. This was his community that came out in droves to stand in line for over an hour to pay their respects at his showing.

The last conversation. The last hug. The last laugh. The last meal. The last week. The last holiday. The last sleep. The last ride. The last time she crawls.

The last.

Growing up, I celebrated lasts. Lasts meant progress and maturity.

Now, I mourn them. Lasts hurt. Lasts sneak up on you when you’re least prepared and leave you different. Forever.