I will miss the earthworm that has moved all night to reach the top of the garden, the two fingers that pick it up, compulsive to pointing to the sun or cloud, once sliced in two by spinning bicycle blades. I will miss the neck aches, the cotton candy, the man taking my "admit one" ride stub, his fingers opaque and calloused. I will miss reading epilogues, smelling old books, moss as green as my thoughts. I will miss soft pillows and thermometer underneathe my tongue, I will miss your tongue. I will miss unlocking doors, sealing envelopes, medical tests, lips pressed on foreheads. I will miss thank yous, fuck yous, i'm sorries and here's your change. I will miss paradise and my stamp collection.
I will miss blackberries before the mold, the reckless disappointment when I turn to check behind me for a cougar and find nothing there, the sound of a ringing phone in a hollow house, the tinkling of raindrops on the skylight, satisfaction when my hand finishes cleaning toilet fixtures, the smell of basil, peaches and a grandson's hair. I will miss cutting my own toenails, opening a newspaper and cooking lemon curd. I cannot fathom a time without birds at the feeder, sirens in the night and a friendly fire on Christmas Eve. I will miss light in another's eye when I say something honest and kind. I will miss waving to my friends, hooting when my team scores and being dramatic about taking medicine.
I will miss my family and friends, all the animals, the moon when it appears in the daytime in a blue sky, the chance to go back to Paris, all of the beauty that inspires me every day, getting to make art out of anything, sunsets, nature, my camera. But then again, I will be dead so I won't be missing anything. I hope people will be missing me and I have written the great American novel by then. Sex and love, did I mention those? And great food.
I will miss the way my youngests hair smells like sunshine, and how my middle one laughs to shake the house, and how my oldest is almost disdainful. I will miss how the rain sounds through my bedroom window and how my bed is a haven. I will miss all the trivial things that mean so little to me today. But when I am gone I imagine they will be everything. I will miss not knowing what tomorrow may hold for me. What I can or could accomplish, what next rebellion I will be part of. I will miss they hypotheticals and the hopes and the maybes. I will miss being. But, then again, perhaps I won't. Perhaps I will not notice I am even gone.
When I die I will miss the smell of fresh bread, the taste of dark chocolate on my tongue. I will miss seeing the fresh spring wildflowers and the smell of the rosemary hanging to dry. I will miss seeing my daughter's sweet smile. I will miss debates and sharing hearts with best friends. I will miss the feel of grass between my toes as I walk through the backyard. When I die I won't be able to go to my parents' house and watch the squirrels eating peanuts in the backyard. When I die I will miss the tears that taught me joy, the frustrations that taught me peace, the trials that taught me strength and the emptiness that taught me faith. When I die, most of all, I will miss my time in this life.
I will miss daylight & the wind in my face, soft caresses, lazy intoxicating afternoons/evenings in a lover’s warm embrace; I will miss my children & my family, my friends; I will miss laughter & glorious food & wine….the changing of the seasons, & heartbeats. And colors. Sounds. Eyes behind the lens. And joy.
What would I miss most if something remained and I didn’t just wink out like a bad bulb? I’ll miss her the most. The connection. The reaching an arm around her waist as we move together in the embrace. That’s all, well, maybe too, the crisp coldness of a glass of beer on an August day, and snow too, how quiet it makes things.
I imagine my death will seem like drowning, lungs slowly filling. The heavier I sink, the darker the sea becomes. Sound becomes muffled, eyes become dim.
Silly, selfish me. I will miss hearing the cries of disbelief wailing at dawn.
I will miss the stench of tuberose, sticky dripping lillies and bruised gardenias wilting at my wake.
I will miss the taste of salty tears on your neck.
I will not miss the tenacity of regret, nor the indiscretions of my sex. I will not miss the sad bacchanalia of my childhood.
When I am dead and gone, I will miss being reminded of what an utter fool I've been.
8 comments:
I will miss the earthworm that has moved all night to reach the top of the garden, the two fingers that pick it up, compulsive to pointing to the sun or cloud, once sliced in two by spinning bicycle blades. I will miss the neck aches, the cotton candy, the man taking my "admit one" ride stub, his fingers opaque and calloused. I will miss reading epilogues, smelling old books, moss as green as my thoughts. I will miss soft pillows and thermometer underneathe my tongue, I will miss your tongue. I will miss unlocking doors, sealing envelopes, medical tests, lips pressed on foreheads. I will miss thank yous, fuck yous, i'm sorries and here's your change. I will miss paradise and my stamp collection.
I will miss blackberries before the mold, the reckless disappointment when I turn to check behind me for a cougar and find nothing there, the sound of a ringing phone in a hollow house, the tinkling of raindrops on the skylight, satisfaction when my hand finishes cleaning toilet fixtures, the smell of basil, peaches and a grandson's hair. I will miss cutting my own toenails, opening a newspaper and cooking lemon curd. I cannot fathom a time without birds at the feeder, sirens in the night and a friendly fire on Christmas Eve. I will miss light in another's eye when I say something honest and kind. I will miss waving to my friends, hooting when my team scores and being dramatic about taking medicine.
I will miss my family and friends, all the animals, the moon when it appears in the daytime in a blue sky, the chance to go back to Paris, all of the beauty that inspires me every day, getting to make art out of anything, sunsets, nature, my camera. But then again, I will be dead so I won't be missing anything. I hope people will be missing me and I have written the great American novel by then. Sex and love, did I mention those? And great food.
I will miss the way my youngests hair smells like sunshine, and how my middle one laughs to shake the house, and how my oldest is almost disdainful. I will miss how the rain sounds through my bedroom window and how my bed is a haven. I will miss all the trivial things that mean so little to me today. But when I am gone I imagine they will be everything. I will miss not knowing what tomorrow may hold for me. What I can or could accomplish, what next rebellion I will be part of. I will miss they hypotheticals and the hopes and the maybes. I will miss being. But, then again, perhaps I won't. Perhaps I will not notice I am even gone.
When I die I will miss the smell of fresh bread, the taste of dark chocolate on my tongue. I will miss seeing the fresh spring wildflowers and the smell of the rosemary hanging to dry. I will miss seeing my daughter's sweet smile. I will miss debates and sharing hearts with best friends. I will miss the feel of grass between my toes as I walk through the backyard. When I die I won't be able to go to my parents' house and watch the squirrels eating peanuts in the backyard. When I die I will miss the tears that taught me joy, the frustrations that taught me peace, the trials that taught me strength and the emptiness that taught me faith. When I die, most of all, I will miss my time in this life.
I will miss daylight & the wind in my face, soft caresses, lazy intoxicating afternoons/evenings in a lover’s warm embrace; I will miss my children & my family, my friends; I will miss laughter & glorious food & wine….the changing of the seasons, & heartbeats. And colors. Sounds. Eyes behind the lens. And joy.
What would I miss most if something remained and I didn’t just wink out like a bad bulb? I’ll miss her the most. The connection.
The reaching an arm around her waist as we move together in the embrace. That’s all, well, maybe too, the crisp coldness of a glass of beer on an August day, and snow too, how quiet it makes things.
I imagine my death will seem like drowning, lungs slowly filling. The heavier I sink, the darker the sea becomes. Sound becomes muffled, eyes become dim.
Silly, selfish me. I will miss hearing the cries of disbelief wailing at dawn.
I will miss the stench of tuberose, sticky dripping lillies and bruised gardenias wilting at my wake.
I will miss the taste of salty tears on your neck.
I will not miss the tenacity of regret, nor the indiscretions of my sex. I will not miss the sad bacchanalia of my childhood.
When I am dead and gone, I will miss being reminded of what an utter fool I've been.
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