Anita Cohen

The Last Time

One day, several years ago,
I hit a shuttlecock over the badminton net
for the last time.
Were the white feathers hard to see in the glare of a bright summer sun?
Or did they stand out in stark contrast to a gray Long Island sky?
I don't know.
I did not know that I should remember that day
as the last day that I would play badminton with him.
The last day
that I would leap so effortlessly to reach the soaring birdie.

One day, many years ago,
I steered my bicycle back into our driveway
for the last time.
Had we pedaled side-by-side through springtime in our small town?
Or had we coasted single-file downhill to the Montauk port?
I don't know.
I did not know that I should remember that day
as the last day that we would bike together.
The last day
that I would know the joy of riding effortlessly along,

One day, a number of years ago,
I skied down a small slope, and I knew it was
for the last time.
The day was cold and crisp, beautiful and triumphant,
I worked so hard to put on my boots,
to stay erect, to control my skis.
But I savored the effort,
gloried in those final, perfect runs.
And I knew I would never,
could never,
do it again.

One day, some years ago,
I rode a horse, a beautiful black horse,
for the last time.
Ringed by mesa and mountain,
We trotted delicately through the still wide-open spaces of Arizona,
evoking that fearless girl who would do anything,
certain that her body would sustain her.
Still, in not-so-subtle ways,
it was, oh, so much harder now
to keep my balance,
to keep my feet in the stirrups,
to ride and relax at the same time.
My body warned: The next time,
might not be possible,
might be too dangerous,
might not be perfect.
So I decided there would be no next time.

There is a difference
between the last times that I chose
and the last times that came and went without my knowing.
I will always wish for one more game of badminton with him,
my body responding before my brain can summon it;
One more bike ride,
my mind and body spinning through the countryside in perfect harmony.
Two more memories that I could put in the last-time box,
To remind me that I made the decision to stop.
Me, not MS.

MS is a series of last times,
but because I chose them before the disease did,
I will always remember my last day skiing,
my last hour astride a horse
with warm smiles for the memory,
and for the sweet, sweet triumph over MS.

Anita Cohen's writing talents led her to a fascinating career as a science writer and editor at Brookhaven National Laboratory. Now retired on disability, she is focusing on her lifelong love of writing both poetry and prose. "The Last Time" is the first poem she has had published.