When is the last time?

When is the last time you’ll say chochewette instead of chocolate?

When is the last time we’ll dance together to your favorite show’s theme song?

When is the last time you’ll pretend to make me a gourmet meal of pancakes, or cookies, or soup?

When is the last time I’ll get a “coffee” made of shower water?

When is the last time you’ll say “Let’s snuggle!” and run to the bedroom?

I lie in bed, waiting for you and your sister to fall asleep, and I’m thinking about work — what I need to do tonight, and tomorrow, and before the end of the week.

I’m thinking about that ache I felt in my tooth and hoping it doesn’t mean an expensive trip to the dentist.

I’m thinking about exercise, and the books I want to write, and all the dishes in the sink.

And then I think about how your head is resting on my chest. And my arm is wrapped around you — your hand on mine, making sure that I don’t let go of you.

And I think: When is the last time?

And the thought that there is one — that there must be — is too much to think about.

I push the thought away.

I don’t know when the last time will be, but I’m here for this time.

I won’t let it pass by unnoticed.