My youngest stepdaughter performed in a McCleskey Middle School production of Oklahoma! last week. This was the final show staged by her choral teacher, Ms. Murrell, after 30+ years of teaching and producing musicals. Ms. Murrell read a lovely, heartfelt thank you after the performance, and the leads surprised her with a framed gift autographed by all the kids gathered around her.

As with many of the performers—and, of course, this fabled teacher making her final appearance on a school stage—I found it impossible not to cry. In fact, I’m tearing up again as I write this. There is something so poignant, so bittersweet, about such goodbyes. They’re like witnessing little deaths. Yes, she’ll go on teaching chorus until the school year ends in a couple weeks, but that was the very last time she would take to the McCleskey stage to thank everyone who made a production possible and also made her long career so fulfilling.

The experience resonated with me because, just days beforehand, I’d overseen my 34th Atlanta Writers Conference and said my goodbyes and best wishes to the hundreds of attendees and nearly two dozen guest agents, publishers, and speakers. I’ve been gearing up for number 35 since March, and I hope I can make it to 50 conferences. Doing two of these annually, that’s just eight years away. I’m only 60 years old—I hope I have that much time remaining. Maybe I can even do 60 or more conferences before I’m through.

No matter what the final tally is, eventually I’ll be saying goodbye to attendees and guests for the last time. Hopefully I’ll know it’s the final one and can prepare as Ms. Murrell had, with a handwritten speech, surrounded by the people who have supported me for so long.

I’m also still writing novels—currently working on a cozy mystery with my wife, author Kim Conrey, and what we hope will be the start of a fun new series—but there will come a time when I’ve written my last book. Held my final launch event. Thanked a book club for welcoming me with no more such talks to follow.

For everything, there will be a last time. Hard to acknowledge but inevitable.

Conclusions are as important as beginnings. Of course, we all know people who exited suddenly and never got to say goodbye and thank you. From a job. From a favorite pastime. From life, all too often. If we’re lucky, though, we see the moment coming, savor the denouement, and have a chance to thank everyone who journeyed with us and made what we experienced so rich, meaningful, indelible.

I hope I get the chance to express my appreciation to Kim and her girls for all the love and laughter they gave me, to my readers who enjoyed my stories, to my Atlanta Writers Club colleagues for trusting me to lead them and for making my work with and for them so fulfilling.

May all of us be blessed to have that opportunity to stand upon our own stage and let the people in our lives know how crucial and vital they are, how much we love them, and how deeply we will miss them.

Until then, though, let’s work for ourselves and for others like we always have one more book or performance in us.