I didn't know then that it would be the last time.
Perhaps, that's the peculiar mercy of being alive: we are rarely told which moments deserve our full attention. We don't know which phone calls will become sacred, which photographs will become artifacts, which goodbyes will hold more truth than the ones we've said before.
A summer storm cools the air. The windows come down. The wind presses against your face, and for a moment, you are a child again—laughing, singing, choosing to breathe. Maybe this is one of the things grief reveals: endings do not make a moment any less alive. If anything, they ask us to look more closely.
Because we rarely know when we are standing inside something that will become ever-lasting.
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