Lasts

Whenever you knowingly experience the "last" of something, even the most ordinary things suddenly seem extraordinary.

Take this couch I'm sitting on right now. I don't know when or even if I'll sit on this couch again. I bought it 4 years ago from my neighbors before they moved to Minnesota. I don't remember that there was anything that really stood out to me about the couch, other than the price tag: it's a plain beige couch that's good (not great) for sitting on, and they were practically giving it away because they just didn't have a need for it any more. So for the last 3 years of college, it became a reliable fixture in my living room--it was always there, and therefore I always used it when I needed a place to sit. Not a single day has passed in the last 4 years when I have put any more thought into this couch than that.

But tonight, being perhaps the last time I will ever sit on this couch, I have recalled some of the memorable life events I've experienced while sitting on it. I realize now, this isn't just a couch. Though there were probably hundreds or even thousands of couches that were made just like it, they aren't just couches either--not once they left the furniture store. From that moment on, rather, a unique story begins to be embedded within each one. And just like a photo album or diary or video tape does, each couch alone has the ability (when coupled with a night like tonight at least) to trigger dozens of memories that might otherwise have been forgotten.

And the couch isn't the only thing that has morphed from mediocre to magnificent tonight. The the sound of crickets, which I've always thought to be a little annoying, has suddenly become music to my ears on my last night here. I don't know if they have crickets in Abu Dhabi or not, but even so, I won't be able to hear their monotonous melody in the big city. And night time just won't be the same without them.

I'm also going to miss those wretched flower pots sitting out on my deck. My sister ambitiously decided to start a small "garden" this summer, to add a bit of life to our deck I suppose. For a while--about 10 days--it really was something. The blossoming flowers brought a lot of color and a nice aroma out there. But Andrea, being Andrea, seemed to forget that, much like all other living things, a flower doesn't stop needing food and water once it becomes fully grown. So our little garden turned into a plant cemetary (may they rest in peace), reminding all who went out there of death and darkness. And though they've been dead for nearly 2 months now, because somebody still hasn't bothered to remove them, I realize tonight that I wouldn't have it any other way.

I could go on and on with a list of other things that I might not see ever again, or at least for a really long time. But I'm getting tired now and I need to get a good night's sleep before my big day of traveling tomorrow (later today really). Even though this will not be the last goodnight I ever say to the Kansas City night sky, the changes that I am about to experience in my life just became very, very real for the first time.