Pirate Possum

There was a day your mother picked you up for the last time. Neither of you knew it. When you were small, she carried you thousands of times. Then it was hundreds, then a handful, and then one ordinary afternoon she set you down and never picked you up again. It happened to both of you, and neither of you can remember the day. If she had known, she would have held on a little longer. Every ordinary thing you share with someone you love has a final count. It is true of the phone calls, the Sunday dinners, and the hugs at the front door. The number is already set, and nobody ever gets to see it. A last time feels exactly like every other time. Nothing about the moment changes. Everything after it does. So right now, you are living through moments whose meaning has not been decided yet. Your phone holds years of photos. The cloud keeps every message you have ever sent, and the machines being built now are learning to recall every conversation you have had. They are getting better at predicting what you will buy, what you will watch, and what you will say next. They still cannot show you the count. A machine can already learn someone’s voice and have it say things they never said. It still cannot give you back the last thing they actually said to you. A machine can store a moment, but only you can be there for it. Somewhere ahead of you is the last time your dad calls just to talk, the last time your kid asks you to stay until they fall asleep, and the last time everyone you love fits in one room. You are on someone else’s count too. There will be a last time your kid runs to meet you when you get home, and neither of you will know it. Something ordinary in your life is happening for the last time right now, and it looks like nothing. Grief always arrives late. It waits until something is gone before it lets you feel what it was worth. Paying attention is the only way to feel it on time.