The Last Time

You never know the last time is the last time until it’s too late. You never think about what you’d say, what you’d do if this was the end and you’d never get another chance. Every day should be the last day, maybe people would be kinder to one another.

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “the last time.”


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

15 thoughts on “The Last Time”

  1. Thinking of last time(s) is almost as difficult as remembering special life influences. In order: Dad, Bumper, Cracker, Sweetness, Mom, Tiki, Princess, my sister Anita – all these family members took a part of me at the same time they left a part of themselves. I learned so much about how to live from each of them. Mostly though, I learned how to “walk in Beauty” as a Navaho saying goes. Now comes time for me to pass on that wisdom. It is my deepest wish to gift others in much the same way these treasured ones did for me.


  2. The last time I saw him I thought about telling him. How for all those years I’d been completely infatuated with his personality, his humor, and even though we met almost everyday, I never got up the nerve. Now it really is too late, and it’s my fault too, after all, I told him not to be shy about his feelings; that if it felt right he should go for it. Ironic, because the last time I saw him…he was leaving to meet her.

  3. The last time is always the most difficult. I’ve moved so many times. It isn’t leaving the house that is heart wrenching. It’s leaving the gardens at each home for the last time. The gardens I designed and planted and cared for throughout the seasons of the years. I definitely inherited my love of gardening from my grandparents who had beautiful gardens in the city. I loved following them when they were tending their garden beds. The colors, the aromas, the different textures. Absolutely wonderful. My grandparents never really taught me. But I observed and learned. And in their memories each and every one of my homes have been surrounded by garden “rooms” that always have something in them that they had planted long ago. How can I forget the scent of Lilies of the Valley and lilacs in the Spring soon followed by beautiful climbing roses. Then in summer the outrageously huge blue blossoms of the Nikko Blue Hydrangeas. It has never ceased to amaze me how we can plant a little seed or a spindly looking tiny sprout of a flower or shrub and watch it grow and mature. The last time I leave a home it always hurts to say good-bye to my gardens. This time, like the last, I’m already spending a lot of time sketching and designing my next cottage garden to replace the front lawn of my new home.

  4. The last time Lara saw Kevin was 15 years ago. It seemed more than that and every time she thought of him, she still had to catch her breath. The memories they made together were so vivid, and no one could take them away from her. She could replay them over and over in her head, and they elicited the same carnal response in her each and every time. Lara wondered where and how he was, but she knew it would be too painful to reach out to him. Lara wasn’t willing to set herself up for a rejection if she contacted him and he didn’t respond. She had let go a while back and she should hold her ground. For now, Lara had the memories, and she was thankful for that…

      1. Hi, First 50 here. Just a reminder.

        The principles of writing practice involve just writing without judgment or internal editing. Write anything, just write. Write fiction, memories, poems, thoughts, reflections, whatever the topic brings forth for you–just write it.

        A principle of writing practice is that you don’t comment on other people’s writing – either praise or criticism. If you are free to just write, whatever comes out is whatever comes out.

      2. No worries. Just a reminder that you are free to write whatever about the topics and not think about that internal editor. It’s hard to get used to not giving feedback, I know, especially when you like something. There are often posts here that just amaze me with their creativity and originality, but I never offer praise because that isn’t what writing practice is about.

  5. The last time I saw my mother fully conscious was right before her hip surgery. She’d fallen in her apartment in Beachwood, Ohio. I’d gotten a phone call in Columbus, Ohio. So, I got in my car and headed to the Hillcrest Hospital emergency room.

    My mother was a strong woman. She’d survived her beloved husband’s suicide years before. (He thought he was doing the family a favor since he was depressed. She had gotten by with very limited vision for many years. After she turned 90 she couldn’t see her own reflection in the mirror, or much of anything else. She really wasn’t interested in living anymore. She was starting to lose her mind, mixing me up with her long ago sister, forgetting Perry Como’s name when she heard him on the radio, talking about leaving her body to medical science when she died. She was angry at my father for leaving her alone for so many years when she desperately needed him.

    My relationship with her had been close since I was her baby. She still called me Barbie although I was 57. My two older sisters were always jealous of me. My parents and I were more like a unit since the two girls both left home when I was 13. It was devastating watching my strong willed mother fall apart, piece by piece.

    So there I was at the hospital with her and she wanted no part of the hip surgery. The doctor told her to sign the papers, and I convinced her it was the right thing to do. Since she was a fighter all her life, she probably would’ve signed them with out my urging. So, I don’t feel guilty about that, so much. For a couple of hours I did tell her what was going on with all of her grandchildren. I’m glad I talked to her for so long. I feel vindicated because I was the only one who was there with her at the end.

    The nurses told me they wouldn’t take her back to surgery for a couple of hours, so I went to the hospital cafeteria.

    When I got back, she was gone. I never said goodbye. . After surgery, she did open her eyes and look at me as I chattered about a hugely pregnant woman I saw in the lobby . Suddenly, My mother closed her eyes. She never regained consciousness. So, my husband, daughters and I did a death watch.

    Being the considerate person she always was, she took her last breath about a week later. It was strange watching the person who gave me life, lose hers.

    I’m so glad we were there for her. I do think she knew it because she died after my oldest daughter, who she had a special relationship with, told her it was okay to die.

  6. We should have raced to the cubicle . In hindsight , it seems strange that we didn’t. We were told that this might be the last time we saw her. It was. Yet, we calmly walked to her bedside. Perhaps it was all that suffering that she had to endure, or was it sheer denial on our part.
    When we went in , she was lying on her side . Her hands were burning hot with fever. She was being vigorously sponged with ice water. She was panting, as if she had run a marathon. A marathon of a lifetime . I called her . She opened her eyes, but she wasn’t there. The look was vacant. The response primeval. It was time to go.
    They say you witness a death in the family and you can face anything in your life later. For nothing jolts you more.
    She closed her eyes and heaved a final, tired sigh. Her last breath. We were there. We all, whom she loved , cherished and doted on .
    Then all went silent. All sounds stilled . darkness descended. It was a bright sunny morning of the summer equinox outside . June 21st. But our world had caved in . Collapsed into thick , dark ,envelope of grief.

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