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From the moment of impact until the plane came to rest was nine seconds.
Life is measured in birthdays. Graduations. Weddings. First steps. A first crush. A first kiss. Firsts, not lasts, are the tallies on a life’s scorecard. But as Will tucked a piece of her dark brown hair behind Shannon’s ear, he only thought of the lasts.
The life of a child is about firsts. The life of a parent is about lasts.
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Shannon smiled and Will saw her. Chris. Shannon’s mother. His wife. Soon to be ex-wife. Suddenly Will remembered a last: the last time he’d seen Shannon cry. April, one year ago. He and Chris had sat Shannon down at the kitchen table and told her they were separating. Shannon wasn’t a crier. But she’d cried then. He’d moved out that weekend. Will realized a couple of his own personal lasts. And they were all regrets.
The additions to their home were like hashes on a doorframe marking a child’s height. The marks are what get noticed—but what matters is what happens in the spaces between them. The experiences in those spaces, the cards life deals you, that is what makes a house a home. That’s what makes a marriage. That’s what makes a family.
