Columns

The intellect arches its eyebrows, denies it, demeans it. The intellect says, What? Are you serious? The dead do not speak. The dead are dead.

But the intellect is wrong.

I am driving to Bridgewater State University, a sprawling Massachusetts school, which was a small college when I went there. I am meeting my bonus grandson, my youngest daughter’s partner’s son, who is a sophomore majoring in criminal justice. The last time I saw Matt in person, at Christmas, he offered to show me around the now sprawling campus. We made plans to meet at two o’clock in the parking lot near his dorm on the last Friday in January. The morning of our meeting, he texted, “Message me when you get here.”

I spent an afternoon searching, not for my lost diamond ring, which was my mother’s and which — despite weeks of deep excavation — remains missing, but rather for a column I am sure I wrote sometime, but who knows when? It was one of my favorites, about last times, about how they march right past us, chests inflated, drums banging, banners flying, like a Mardi Gras parade but how, just as often, they creep, too, like a child sneaking down some squeaky stairs to steal a cookie.

Either way, disguised as clowns or spiders, we seldom notice last times. They need some PR. Or at least a viewer warning: Pay attention. Stop what you’re doing and take notice because this kiss, this hug, this handshake, this person standing in your kitchen? This moment that always was, won’t always be. This is it. This will not be happening again.

A street sign shows the way

Cherish the last like you do the first This moment that always was, won’t always be. This is it. This will not be happening again.