When I was a kid, every time I finished a book I would read the last sentence out loud. I don’t know how I came to start this ritual, but it meant a lot to me. Reading the last line aloud felt sacred, like I was cradling my final moments with that particular book, the characters who felt like friends, and the world the writer had created.
This ritual went on for many years until it stopped. I don’t remember when or how. I probably outgrew it. But I thought of it recently as I finished Ann Patchett’s latest novel Tom Lake (highly recommend!). I loved the book and found the last few pages, including the last line, very powerful. So moving that I felt that old impulse to read the final line aloud.
It got me thinking about how some endings—like in books or films—are obvious. Tangible and concrete. When you’re three-quarters of the way through a book or a movie, you know the end is coming. You might kind of brace yourself because you don’t want the experience to end. You might also wonder if the ending will feel satisfying to you.
Sometimes this translates to real life—a gap year, a study abroad project, an exchange trip, a holiday—where we see the end from the very beginning. But often, the endings that define our lives come out of the blue. They are not arranged in advance and happen without our knowledge or consent. Think a sudden death of someone you love, the end of a relationship, a car accident, a fire.
And then there are the endings that happen but we don’t know it in the moment. As a parent, I think about how there was a last time I gave my daughter a piggyback or snuggled with her at bedtime, but as it was happening, I didn’t know it would be the last. And on the other end of life’s spectrum, as our parents age, we often don’t know which will be the last time we talk to them on the phone or go for a walk or sit down for a shared cup of tea.
I like to think that our early experiences with endings—saying goodbye to friends we made on a family holiday, graduating from high school, leaving home—are a way to practise the harder ones that will eventually come. Maybe, as a child, I was learning to honour endings by rehearsing with something innocent and easy, like the last line of a book.
And perhaps all of this practice leads us to the place where we can be present and open-hearted with the larger endings in our lives. I think of a dear friend whose father recently chose a medically assisted death. He spent the last three weeks of his life inside a bubble of close, quality time with his family. So many of us lose the ones we love suddenly, with no time to say goodbye or reminisce about wonderful times spent together. Even though I was sad for my friend, this time for her family to be intentional together seemed like a real gift.
Our human experience of life’s endings can be complicated and bittersweet. They are something we all share but everyone’s endings are different – both the content and the experience itself. And then there is the beginning that lies on the other side of every ending!
If the topic of this post speaks to you, and you’re interested in exploring it more through writing, drop me a line. I have a series of writing prompts that I’d love to share with you.
And speaking of endings that are also beginnings, I will soon be taking a short hiatus from my work and my monthly posts. The Camino awaits! I will walk from St. Jean Pied de Port in France to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. I can’t wait to tell you all about it when I return in May!
ps. I won’t be spending much time on my phone or on social media while I am away, but I may post the occasional photo on Instagram if you’re interested in seeing some of my journey.
Check this out!
I was recently interviewed on this writerly podcast! The host, Rachael Herron, and I talked about writing rituals, listening for a friendly and supportive inner voice, and a little bit about my book and what I do!
