When the Girl decided she wanted to play volleyball, when she tried out for the team as a sixth grader and didn’t make it, when she became really determined, she’d come ask me, “Padre” (She’d started calling me that by then) “can we go out to the front yard and practice volleyball?” I’d toss her balls, simulate spikes, help her practice running for balls — all the basic skills someone of my eager volleyball means could help with given our lack of a net.
At some point, she asked me for the last time to go help her practice. I didn’t realize it was the last time she would ask me, and to be honest, I don’t know if I even agreed to it. She might have asked, and I might have made some kind of excuse. Or maybe we went and practiced one last time.
She hasn’t asked me to do that in years now. She probably never will again. The last time, passed without knowing, fully past with complete knowledge.
So when the Boy asked if, instead of swimming tonight, we could practice basketball, I agreed. I didn’t really want to: I wanted to get some serious exercise in the pool. But he’s that age: how many more times will he ask? When will be the last time?