Last

The first time I took a breath, celebrated with a yearly rememberance.

The first time I slept in a real bed instead of the crib, solemnly watched over by my parents.

The first note I played on a piano, beginning a love affair.

The first paycheck, commemorated with a photograph.

The first time behind the wheel of a car, journaled thoroughly .

I have a close friend I sometimes call out of the blue to begin a conversation with the words, "I had a first today...."

So many firsts, so carefully observed.

***

The last time I used a pacifier.

The last time I fit into my favorite pink dress.

The last time Dad braided my hair.

The last time I played "house."

The last time I held my brothers and sister on my lap.

The last time I saw each person in my life who has died.

The lasts...

...slipping by unacknowledged, unnoticed, unrealized. But as precious, as life altering, as any first.

Treasure. Each. Moment.

This Modern Hand

I am pretty sure I invented modern art. Or at least I practice modern art? Can you practice art like you practice medicine? And isn't it scary, when you come to think about it, that doctors are still in "practice" after all that school? But I digress.

I was tucking Peter in last night -- minus the tucking in part, which means I was kissing him goodnight & exchanging stories from the day -- when he spotted my right hand. His eyes got big.

"WHAT is THAT?" he finally wondered aloud.

Puzzled, I glanced at my hand. Oh yeah....those black ink blots all over my hand. I'd forgotten about those.

"Well, um," I explained, "I was in a meeting this afternoon."

So maybe I didn't invent modern art, but I'm pretty sure whoever did invent it was just like me. A little ink happy. Especially while thinking hard, listening, or suffering from boredom.*

* For posterity: Boredom was not a factor in the meeting described in this page.