I wondered if I should take a photo. Whether I should encapsulate this moment in case I want to look back.
The last time I saw that view, at that time.
The last time I walked that pathway, crossing at exactly the same place.
The last time I slept in that bed, relaxed in that bath, unlocked that front door.
But what does the photo tell me?
Better a picture of the worn out carpet where feet have trod in and out. A chair a friend sits in on every visit. A mug that was bought for that one particular guest.
But maybe my memories are the things of value.
They cannot be shared in quite the same way. A photograph can’t show the chill of the wind, or the true brilliance of colours and the joy they inspired. It can’t show the emotion or the importance or the triviality. It can’t show the ridiculous or the quirks or the bittersweet.
The last time I see where I hung those pictures, others will see the shadow.
The last time I remove my furniture, others will see the indents and the markings.
The last time I take my place on the platform, others will stand in the same spot.
Because the last time comes just before the first time. The not yet, the nearly and the next.
The first time, full of possibility.