LAST FIRST

I have had scores of firsts.  I’ve been having them since before I knew my own name.  That is essentially all my life has been – a long, continuous strand of first times.  There have been last times also.  Today is somewhat more noteworthy, less usual: today is a last first.

I only remember in a shadowy sort of way the day that I started school – the first day, ever.  These are half-memories, the ones that form around events I have seen both in pictures and in the back corners of my mental archives.  I might remember that day, but my memories might only be the imprint of a photo of myself, five years old, standing on the front porch, leaning back against the brick wall in a self-important way, in a green checked dress and showing teeth in the attempted-smile way that all kindergarteners instinctively know.

I have no picture for posterity of the beginning of today, which is perhaps just as well: I started off with wet hair under a hat, only somewhat successfully preventing icicles from forming on my head.  A new semester is, in some respects, not as momentous as the first-days-of-school always seemed when I was small.  This one feels momentous. 

I know that very often, planning is a dangerous thing to do.  I have been reminded by many people, after making the declaration I am about to make, that “never” is a dangerous word to utter.  But I will declare it anyway: I plan to never be in school again. 

I will always be learning.  I plan, dangerous as it may be, to learn for the rest of my life.  But it will be different.  This is both a beginning and an end, my last first day of school.  Onward, now, to new lessons, and new firsts.