FIRSTS AND LASTS
2024-10-14
A lot of attention is paid, often in retrospect, to the experience of the
first times in our lives. The first laugh; the first kiss; the first day at
your job (While watching a wooden train toy jiggle down a length of string,
reportedly; Sarah Titlow, behind the school outbuilding, circa 1988; and five
years ago this week, respectively.). But for every first, there must
inevitably be a last.
I recall a moment when I was... perhaps the age our eldest child is now. As I
listened to the bats in our garden, my mother told me about how she couldn't
hear them as clearly as she could when she was my age. The human ear isn't
well-equipped to hear that frequency that bats use, and while children can
often pick out the sounds, the ability tends to fade with age.
IMG Face of a bat, hanging upside-down.
This recollection came as I stayed up late the other month to watch the
Perseids. I lay in the hammock in our garden under a fabulously clear sky as
the sun finished setting, and - after being still and quiet for a time -
realised that the local bat colony were out foraging for insects. They flew
around and very close to me, and it occurred to me that I couldn't hear them
at all.
There must necessarily have been a "last time" that I heard a bat's
echolocation. I remember a time about ten years ago, at the first house in
Oxford of Ruth, JTA and I (along with Paul), standing in the back garden and
listening to those high-pitched chirps. But I can't tell you when the very
last time was. At the time it will have felt unremarkable rather than
noteworthy.
First times can often be identified contemporaneously. For example: I was able
to acknowledge my first time on a looping rollercoaster at the time.
IMG The Tower of Terror, Camelot Theme Park, circa 1990s; a steel rollercoaster track dips in and out of a fibreglass castle structure.
I wonder what it would be like if we had the same level of consciousness of
last times as we did of firsts. How differently might we treat a final phone
call to a loved one or the ultimate visit to a special place if we knew, at
the time, that there would be no more?
Would such a world be more-comforting, providing closure at every turn? Or
would it lead to a paralytic anticipatory grief: "I can't visit my friend;
what if I find out that it's the last time?"
LINKS
HTML Holme Slack County Primary School, location of my first kiss
HTML My blog post about my first day(s) at Automattic, where I currently work
HTML Archived copy of A Home Called Earth, website of our first house in Oxford
HTML Ruth's weblog
HTML Archived copy of JTA's weblog
HTML Paul's weblog
HTML Camelot