Cherish the last like you do the first This moment that always was, won’t always be. This is it. This will not be happening again.

I spent an afternoon searching, not for my lost diamond ring, which was my mother’s and which — despite weeks of deep excavation — remains missing, but rather for a column I am sure I wrote sometime, but who knows when? It was one of my favorites, about last times, about how they march right past us, chests inflated, drums banging, banners flying, like a Mardi Gras parade but how, just as often, they creep, too, like a child sneaking down some squeaky stairs to steal a cookie.

Either way, disguised as clowns or spiders, we seldom notice last times. They need some PR. Or at least a viewer warning: Pay attention. Stop what you’re doing and take notice because this kiss, this hug, this handshake, this person standing in your kitchen? This moment that always was, won’t always be. This is it. This will not be happening again.

When was the last time my son, who has been a grown-up for decades, ran to me crying? When was the last time I had the power to kiss away his tears? I don’t remember. I remember his first steps. I took photos. I wrote in his baby book, “Robbie walked today.” I never wrote when he outgrew his Big Wheel, when he stopped waving from the school bus window, when he wiped away his own tears.

First times are filmed and framed. Physically. Mentally. First friend. First date. First job. First breakup. First apartment. First everything.

I remember the first time I rode a two-wheeler. My father talked me onto it, steadied it, and ran with it and me halfway around our block. I can see him still in a khaki shirt, his hair thick and black and curly, beads of sweat on his forehead. “Don’t look at me! Look where you’re going!” he yelled.” And I did.

When was the last time I rode a bike? I don’t remember.

The first LP I ever owned? “West Side Story,” the film version. My friend, Anne Farrell, gave it to me for Christmas in 1961. We were sophomores in high school. My parents had given me a portable stereo that could play LPs. That album was my favorite gift.

The last LP I was given or bought? I don’t remember.

The first time a boy whistled at me I was 11 and walking up Chestnut Street in Randolph to meet my friend Rosemary at our halfway spot. The boy was driving in the opposite direction. He had dark blonde Elvis Presley-styled hair. His car was gray, it was summer, and the driver’s window was down. He slowed as he neared me, leaned out the window, whistled, and said, “Hey! Do you have an older sister at home?” I shook my head no and he shook his head too and drove away. When I met up with Rose and told her the story, we laughed ourselves silly. Boys, we said. They are so weird.

The last time anyone whistled at me? I don’t remember.

I used to wake up early to write, 5 a.m. before my kids were awake. When did this stop? When did the kids grow up and move out and move on, the sun up now most days before I am?

I don’t remember.

I remember the first time I laced up rented white ice skates and pirouetted my way across an ice rink. Johnny Barker was there. He was an MDC police officer and my father’s friend. It was my first time at a rink and my first time in white skates. I can close my eyes and see my breath and my new red Christmas sweater. I remember this clearly.

The last time I skated? I don’t remember at all.

The last time I sat with my mother at her kitchen table. The last time I saw my grandmother. The last time my aunt Lorraine called to read me something she wrote. The last time Ed Johnston knocked at the back door. The last time I danced with my father-in-law. The last time Lois Edgerly took me to her fancy club. The last time I walked, unafraid of falling, over boulders to a secret spot that was my sacred place for years.

I don’t remember any of these last times.

I was up before the sun this morning, at my desk in the dark like old times, looking for the first column I ever wrote, which I found in a file, because that’s what you do with firsts: You preserve them.

The column was titled, “In the spring, the wonder of life’s promise,” and it ran on the front page of this paper on May 15, 1980. I remember writing it, rewriting it, crossing out, adding, crossing out, changing, typing a clean copy on an old IBM Selectric, stuffing it in an envelope, dropping it in the mail, and waiting.

Nearly 44 years later, it’s the same writing and rewriting, crossing out, adding, changing, and waiting. Pay attention. Stop what you’re doing and notice this, my brain says. I’m noticing. I’m paying attention. Today is a last time I will remember.

One more last time: My last headstand. It was July 2012, at York Beach, Maine. A friend took a picture, which is why I remember. It’s impossible to remember without pictures. Without words. Without a witness saying, “remember.”

So take pictures. Keep a journal. And pay attention. Because there might be a last time drumming its call or creeping down some creaky stairs right now.

Beverly Beckham can be reached at bev@beverlybeckham.com.