So many times, I've thought it might be the last time. Not every time, but often enough. Too often, I mean.
It wasn't always like that. There were good times, lots of good times. There were nights that would end with the certainly that there'd be another day. On those nights, I slept well. I miss those nights, that confidence that I had, that it would continue for at least another day. That maybe it would continue forever.
The last time wasn't one of the good ones. The last time, like so many other times before, I heard the voice inside my head. "This could be the last time," it whispered.
"Make it last," it advised.
"Remember this," it urged.
"Never let go," it pleaded.
I didn't want to let go, not ever. I wanted to have and to hold and to protect and to cherish, but mostly I wanted to hold. To just hold on to, well, everything that matters to me.
But I didn't. I let go. I released my grip, and I let my arms fall back to my sides.
I wonder, Was that the last time?