Our Lasts

It’s May 7th, and today I put my beloved Zina down. My chihuahua/rat terrier mix that had a better personality than most humans. She was lively, joyful, smiley, and really, really French. Well, not actually French. But she had the regal, self-confident energy and the pickiness of a palette that only a French person could have. My Zina.

Today, we also had our last dance. In the living room of my parents overcrowded, tchotchke-filled house, I held Zina, cheek-to-cheek, and sang her a song that for some reason has been stuck in my head lately: At Last. Since she was little, I would pick her up, and we would dance, usually in the kitchen of my 2-bedroom apartment where no one could see us except her brother, Sol. Her best friend and biggest admirer.

It was weird knowing that in fact, this would be, our last dance. The last time I would hold her tiny little body against my chest. The last time we would spin around and I would hear my voice bounce off her squeaky, leaky, nose. See, at 18.5 years old, Zina made a few different noises and had more “leaks” than normal.  The truth is, she had aged. She had lived. And we could tell.

And because of that, we didn’t wait until she was absolutely miserable to grant her peace. We had the privilege of getting to choose our last moments with her. Which is weird and ironic because so much of the fear and sadness that we have around death is that we don’t know what or how our last moments will be. But, this, as hard as it was--was the most loving and gracious thing we could do for her. We could choose her last moments. With her. And for her.

As I held her close, I wanted to take in this moment so that on my eventual death bed, hopefully many decades later,  this very moment would follow me. The closeness. The love. Our bond. Auntie and Zizi.

We’re so used to collecting our firsts. Our first kiss, our first drive, our first job, our first love. Rarely do we get to honor or collect our lasts.

We held Zina in her last moments, alongside her brother Sol. It was one of the saddest moments of my life, but also one of the most necessary.

I say this because cost of admission to a deep, loving, and meaningful life is one that is FULLY lived. One where we don’t numb out, avoid, or run from things that are uncomfortable.

See, death isn’t what's scary. The unknown can be. But more than anything, a lack of meaning is. A lack of connection. A lack of love.

People always say that “everything is temporary," but memories and moments in time that you can choose to keep close to your heart--those are the opposite. They are timeless and lasting. And if we let them be, they are the ones that last a lifetime.

Just like our Zina. Timeless. Lasting. A little leaky. And of course, a love of a lifetime.