Before It Becomes the Last Time

Today is my first daughter’s graduation day at her elementary school.

Thinking about it, I realized something.

Because of the age gap between my two daughters…

…today may be the last day  they walk to same school together.

I told them that.

Then they held hands.

And walked away together.

For the last time.

And suddenly, I remembered.

Walking to school with my older brother and sister.

Back then, I thought  we would always walk together.

My grandmother visited us when our family was having a difficult time.

She smiled in front of us.

But once, I saw her standing quietly behind a door.

She was crying where she thought no one could see.

She passed away long ago.

There were also things I left behind before immigrating.

A room full of childhood memories.

After moving, I was too busy building a new life

I forgot to bring those things to my new home — until they were thrown away.

Then there were the countless diapers I changed.

At the time, I thought those nights would never end.

But they did.

Bath time was what my little girls loved most.

The bathroom was always loud with water and laughter.

Now the tub is quiet.

So many things disappeared without telling me they were ending.

What if we knew a moment  was the last time before it happened?

What if every last time were  as certain as Halley’s Comet?

Then perhaps we would hold on longer.

Perhaps we would say more.

Exhausted after a busy day, I lay awake and thought:

I should call  my parents more often.

Twelve years after I wrote that,  my father passed away.

My last long-distance call with him had been two years earlier.

When he had recovered after collapsing from a heart problem.

I did not know that call  would be my last call with Dad.

A year after the funeral,  I found a file on my computer.

It was called 'dad.wav'.

I must have known,  somehow,  that the call might become important.

When I heard his voice from file, I collapsed.

Not because it was the last time.

But because time had moved so fast, I kept missing the moments that mattered most.

After the funeral, I traveled alone to Mongolia.

I wanted to see an endless sky of stars.

My father gave me a name that means “star wave.”

That night, the whole sky was full of stars.

I cannot forget that night.

Maybe that, too, was the last time I could feel that way.

Every moment matters— not only because it may be the last, but because nothing remains unchanged forever.

So tonight, if there is someone you love—call them.