Driving home from New Mexico after visiting Rachel and meeting our newest granddaughter, Shirley said something ordinary.
"Next time we do this drive, we should stop at Petrified Forest."
It wasn't a profound moment. Just one of those small comments people make while looking out the window after a long day on the road.
But I realized something immediately.
There probably won't be a next time.
Not because anything is wrong.
Because life changed.
We sold the house.
For more than ten years we made that drive between California and New Mexico. We drove past the signs. We talked about stopping. We kept moving.
There was always a reason.
Too tired. Trying to make time. Weather. Another stop ahead.
Next time.
Only now, there likely isn't one.
And the strange thing is I didn't feel regret about missing Petrified Forest.
What hit me was something deeper.
How often do we quietly assume ordinary circumstances will repeat?
Not the big things.
The ordinary things.
The route you always drive. The annual trip. Dinner with your parents. A phase of life with your children. The assumption that there will be another Christmas. Another summer. Another visit.
Then suddenly there isn't.
Last December Shirley's father passed unexpectedly. A few weeks ago Rachel gave birth and then ended up back in the hospital needing three units of blood. Everything turned out alright.
But for a few days we were reminded of something uncomfortable and obvious: the future is not guaranteed to arrive in the sequence we imagine.
Not in dramatic ways most of the time.
Mostly in quiet ways.
A house gets sold. Children grow up. Health changes. Parents age. People move.
And one day the conditions that supported a repeated experience simply disappear.
The route closes.
I've written before that some experiences are perishable — mostly thinking about capability then. This feels different.
This isn't about climbing Kilimanjaro before your knees give out. It's about recognizing that many of the moments we assume are renewable are actually one-time opportunities disguised as routines.
The last bedtime story. The last family vacation. The last time your parents host Thanksgiving. The last drive home. The last chance to stop somewhere that was always going to be there.
The Difficult Truth
Last times rarely announce themselves. Life just moves — and only afterward do you realize that something ordinary became unavailable.
Nobody says:
"This is the final year."
"This is the last visit."
"This drive will never happen again."
I don't think the lesson is to say yes to everything. That becomes another form of drift.
The lesson is simply to notice.
To occasionally ask: if this never happened again, would I be okay with how I'm spending it?
If not —
stop. Take the detour. Stay another hour. Make the call. Ask the question. Have the dinner.
Because there won't always be a next time.
And the difficult truth is — you usually won't know which time was the last until long after it's gone.