Just like us, twenty-one years back, they were walking their two dogs. The sun was ready to set, and their dogs would plop down on their laps later, ready for a rest. They were grinning in the golden light of the first day of fall, so young and beautiful.

She wore a black t-shirt that accentuated her bulging belly, he a ball cap and a matching shirt. No worries on a Saturday night. Just get the dogs home, put the baby-in-the-belly to bed, watch a flick, go to sleep.

But they had to gawk at me. Crane their necks for the scene I was making.

“Just ONE PIC!!”

I was begging; pleading.

No, it didn’t matter that they’d rushed through the fancy meal I’d spent hours preparing. That their friend was late and didn’t even have a bite. That the remnants of the Minnesota Wild Rice stew were spilled across the kitchen. That their friends were already in the park taking sunset pics.

That this is the last Homecoming.

And goddamn it, I needed JUST ONE PIC.

My baby girl, her friend since sixth grade, her friend since ninth grade, her other friends waiting at the park.

Just. One.

Because this is my last Homecoming.

I looked over at the expecting couple, turning the corner but still craning their necks as I squatted down, iPhone on pulse mode, trying to capture the snark, the impatience, the beauty.

“Oh… you’ll be me before you can blink,” I shouted, and they laughed and laughed and laughed as they walked down the block, not knowing how hard those coming months, years, moments would be. How they’d be begging for one picture, one moment with their baby, their child, their… young adult.

How quickly these sunset moments flash before our eyes.

Before you can blink, they are gone.