Before Firsts Become Lasts

 

Before Firsts Become Lasts

I used to only be old enough to understand a dog with gray hair. An old dog that’s now buried under a seedling of a birch tree that continually sprouts her soul, reaching into the warm air summer after summer. That tree, though it could very well live beyond even my lifetime, represents her youth—when firsts were closer than lasts. A time that was just a bit too far out of reach for a little boy to remember.

There’s an old picture of that boy wearing a camo rainsuit and a Boston Red Sox cap, bumping smoothly along in the hull of an aluminum boat beneath overcast skies, holding onto the dog he eventually became wise enough to know he never wanted to let go of. The picture is old enough to show little of her gray hair, only starting to poke out into the cool canopy over Canada. But that’s as old a memory as I can recall. The rest, I guess, is brought back only by photographs that are seemingly as old as time itself.  

…

Ten years later, I sat around a campfire more than familiar to that old dog. For 14 years she was right there with me, even though I cannot remember the majority of those years. This time though, I was tightly gripping a puppy no more than 3 months old. She was more difficult to hang on to, anxiously wanting to explore the curiosities of a campground that were engulfed in the scent of ruffled feathers and various fish soups. It was there I began to realize her life is only as long as the whispering flames that were fueling my thoughts and engulfing my heart.

A whole lifetime is an extraordinary thing to witness, and I’m just now starting to grasp the race against time we all face, dog owner or not. I know those gray hairs will inevitably return, paw prints will get bigger, lasts will seem nearer than firsts, and dogs will be easier to hang on to and harder to let go of all at once. No matter how hard you hold on, there will come a time when you have to let go.

And every fall, when the wood ducks begin departure, the blowing birch will let go of another leaf that drops a layer of time over a lifetime of love. And I’ll be there beneath it, remembering the lasts that always had firsts.