on Last Days

It took me having a quite unremarkable Last Day to realize how often Last Days happen, and how often they're, well, unremarkable. Wednesday was my Last Day of summer at John Knox Ranch, marking the end of twelve and a half weeks spent on those 300 some-odd acres. 250 meals, 13,000 stairs, countless friends and memories and inside jokes, all to eventually be left in a big envelope labeled "Summer 2008".
Before last Wednesday, though, I had 2 other Last Days. There was the Last Day of summer camp--no more "Knox kids"--and there was the Last Day of camp camp--Braveheart came and went. But both of those Last Days didn't much come as Last Days to me because I knew I'd be back the next day or the next. And now I'm sitting here contemplating whether or not I should go back tomorrow, just to finish up some things I was working on. The fact that I have a choice as to whether or not I want to go back has made me realize that I have actually had my Last Day.
My Last Day passed without my best summer friend being there, without me saying goodbye to everyone I needed to, and without the sun to blind me as I drove home: it was just another year-round day at the ranch. Up until that point, I had thought that I'd have one more day to say goodbye to everyone and everything; I hadn't realized that everyone and everything had already said goodbye before me. Their Last Days had come already, while I blindly kept plugging through towards mine. I didn't even celebrate, really, except for an extra gin-and-tonic and sleeping an hour later the next morning.
A wise English co-worker told me, a couple of weeks before his Last Day, "But then, Jeanna, summer will be over, and you'll have to go back to where you were before your life here." I had shrugged him off: certainly, I couldn't just have a Last Day and then have it all disappear.
He was right--somehow, he always is. My Last Day became something to look back on, rather than something to look forward to. My Last Day became something to attach a label to, to learn from. My Last Day became a First Day and because of that, nothing really changed. There were no warnings, no Wet Floor signs, no bright orange notices on the front door. Only a landlord wondering where the rent was and friendships turning from best to too busy. Evidently, we all have our LastDay/FirstDay realities.
Tomorrow will be my Last Day of summer, I think. And hopefully some day soon, I'll have a Last Day of brief unemployment. They'll be Firsts, too, but I'm starting to think I've learned more from the Lasts than anything else: no matter how un-memorable, a Last Day means something memorable enough must have happened to make that Last Day matter.