When I am on my deathbed, will I remember the last day of October in the year 2010? Will I remember walking through the field at the top of my neighborhood and noticing the small faces of wildflowers as I trundled through tall weeds, how I stopped to bend down and run my fingers over some yellow berries, low to the ground? Will I remember that day, the light a more subtle creature than summer's full-on blast, the warm sweet air? And how on that day I walked through the field in brown velcro sneakers, my green cotton drawstring pants and my white t-shirt? How there was no dog at my side and for once no ache in my heart? Will I remember how the dirt was sandy and pale orange-brown, the grass green and how at the edge of the field, dried oak leaves covered wide swatches of ground? And some leaves on the trees were still bright green, others were yellow and still others had turned dark red? Will I look back on that woman whose heart sang its two notes over and over, whose lungs absorbed life with such ease, and whose legs moved with strength and purpose? Will I remember that for once there was no longing, no pining -- just the simple pleasure of being.
Of course, I was decomposing even then. Cells had begun dismantling the set in preparation for the day we'd call it a wrap. Memories were being (and will continue to be) churned, crushed up, dissipated. But I hope that this one escapes and comes back to surprise me -- a gift from one me to another.
