I wrote this is a few ears ago when our Dog, Hobo, died. After the events of the past few weeks, it seems fitting to put it out there, focusing each precious breath….
When will the last time be?
The last time I walk the trail, the last load of wood, the last fire lit. The last time. To feel the sun on my face, to be pushed by the wind, the last time to hear a song the last time to feel the beat, to drink a glass of whiskey, to sit by the fire. The last time. I’ll never know the last time at the time. I always think there will be another time. The last time.
The last time to do, to experience, to feel, to become, to expand, to explore, the last time. Not morbid thoughts, but realizing thoughts, realizing the way of it, the dance of it, preparation. Preparation for the sure, instant knowledge that the last time has passed without knowing it was the last time at the time.
At the time. The last time for Hobo. The last time he went up the stair, the last time he came down the stair. The last float plane flight, the last run in the meadow, the last horse nosed, the last canoe ride, the last bone chewed, the last squirrel chased.
The last time. The last tree seen naked, the last ice walked on, the last bark, the last thought.
The last time. Precious last time. Unknown last time.
The last time.