Of course, I'm afraid of dying. Of course, I lie awake in the dark, lie warm in the bath, lie shivering in the wild grass, and do the mortal math. Have I been more often good than not? I know that I've been caught napping, caught in the act, caught between worlds, caught in the trap, caught unaware, caught in the mouth of the whale, caught by the tail, caught by the fire, caught on the wire, caught in the tower, caught by fever and fad, caught by the mad, caught by lightning, caught by the net, caught by surprise, caught on the run, and caught by a kiss. O, Shame, Guilt, Regret, and Embarrassment are on my Most Contacted List. But, hey, I also know that I've been extraordinarily blessed so I'd like to stay alive as long as possible and be immersed in all that is sacred, common, dangerous, and farcical. I want to spend a few more decades being shaken by books, movies, music, and people. I want to hear the poets shout blasphemies from the holy and secular steeples. I want to grow so old that my wrinkles become geographic. But none of us, except the terminally ill and suicidal, know when we're going to die. Our deaths are unplanned and unexpected. That's how it goes. One day, you're holding the red rose and then, a day later, you're food for the mushrooms and orchids. That's morbid thinking, I suppose, but everything that grows keeps growing because other things die. So I hope that my death gives heat and light to a new generation of something beautiful utilitarian, profound, and entertaining. So, in thinking about my funeral and wake, in thinking of my last day above earth, in thinking of my body dressed in my beaded vest in the coffin, I'm sad that I won't be able to hear my family and friends tell the many hilarious stories about my Indian boy foolishness, about all my sins, misses, and graces. I don't believe in the hereafter but I might embrace more faith if that faith guaranteed a death illuminated by posthumous laughter.
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This morning at 7:28 am I got a text from a friend that read "He crossed the finish line at 7:01". The "He" being her husband, older than her and in hospice. I sent her your poem. I think her husband would also like to hear the laughter.
“Shame, Guilt, Regret
and Embarrassment are on
my Most Contacted List.”
Samesies.