It’s not a physical pile of course. This pile clutters my mind. Nothing is properly stacked, or arranged by year, or event such as Christmas or Fourth of July, summer vacation or anything else that would organize my thoughts in a tidy pile. They are just there, and here, and under that thought over there. Last times are much more important when you are old, I think. An example for me is that there was a last time I ever sat in my dad’s lap. I have honestly never given it another thought until right now, but there was also a last time I ever had one of my children sit in my lap. I have thought of that quite a bit. Right now there is a very good chance that another child will never sit in my lap again. When was that last time? Which grandchild was the last one? I don’t know. So many last times are sad and have sharp edges, but many are happy and comforting, but the happy and comforting last times are almost always buried under a pile here and there of much more troubling moments for me, and I don’t know why. I suppose it’s ingrained and inevitable for a mind that seeks calm water where calm water ain’t. Why is this on my mind? Four states away my mom had a stroke Thursday, and she just got back home tonight. My plan is to get up there in a couple of days, and I hope I’m not about to add a few more last times to my expanding pile. I’m not ready, not ready yet. I’m not ready.

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