Lasts aren’t something people think about a lot.

First are always important: first steps, first kiss, first job, all those momentous occasions we prepare for and remember, hopefully fondly.

But lasts often pass by without knowledge, and when you go back to think about it later, you’re often not sure when the last was, you just know there was a last. So when you know something is going to be a last, it takes on more weight. It starts to loom in your mind with importance.

I write a lot of letters.

Before my grandmother moved in, I wrote regularly to her, to my other grandmother, and to Michael’s grandmother. After my grandmother moved in, I was down to two letters for a few months, and then began writing letters to my cousin’s grandmother; she suffered a stroke years ago, and became afraid of everything, including leaving the house. So I wanted to bring some of the world back to her.

When my other grandmother died in February, I knew the end was near, but I didn’t know how close it was, so when I wrote my last letter to her, I didn’t realize it was going to be my last.

Now my cousin’s grandmother is failing rapidly, and when I sat down to write this evening, it occurred to me that this could be the last letter I write her. Maybe not. I may yet write her a couple more, but the end is close. Strangely it didn’t make the letter hard to write–I wrote her about my garden and the flowers and color that are everywhere you look–things she can’t see for herself from her room. But signing, addressing, and sealing the letter was strangely difficult.

It feels like there should be more pomp and circumstance, somehow.