And Then There Were Four; the addition of a cactus wren

If today were the last day

 

If today were the last day I’d set my alarm for 4 o’clock and linger in bed in the dark.

I would run my fingers across the quilt that my girlfriend gave me feeling the stitching between my fingers, smelling the fabric, remembering the day of the gift.

 

If today were the last day I would take my thyroid pill and drink celery juice.

I would set the kettle to boil and turn on NPR.

I would brush my teeth and brew my tea and sit on the couch with Po to cuddle under the quilt that my girlfriends gave me a week after my husband told me he wanted a divorce.

 

I would watch the sun breach the horizon and dress the sky in her flaming morning robes of pinks and reds and golds and feel her warm embrace.

 

If today were the last day I would take my dogs on their walk. I would let them off lead and roam farther than we normally do and give them extra treats. I would notice the way the sun sparkles on the snow like glitter, like a thousand sequins on my favorite ballet tutu; admire the sun shining against the cholla illuminating every cactus spine,fingers reaching for an embrace; I’d pick up a favorite rock; sing that John Denver song; call to Hanna if she got too far ahead of me.

I would skip along the road if today were the last day;

laugh.

 

If today were the last day I would play with clay and walk barefoot on the Earth;

polish my windows and sweep the floor; I’d wash my hair and clean my truck;

water my plants and sing the songs; add tiles to my mosaic;

clear out the wood stove and ready it for the evening fire.

 

If today were the last day I would remember all the people who loved me too much and who’s love invariably turned to hate. I would remember all the people for whom my love was suffocating and who I, in turn, learned to hate 

and know that even the shortest pedestal is an accident waiting to happen; a broken neck or a broken heart. I would remember those ties, so strong that they endured the swings of emotion and the pedestal perches and became friendships. And I would wonder if, through it all, I became a better person and if any of those remembered did the same from knowing me?

 

I would forgive them.

I would forgive me.

I would cry.

 

If today were the last day I would breathe my children’s names, “Jamie, Justen, John Paul, Erin. Jamie, Justen, John Paul, Erin. Jamie, Justen, John Paul, Erin, like a mantra, like a prayer. They, who, without a doubt, made me a better person. They whom I loved so much, I let go. I’d add an extra breath for John Paul who’s ultimate death was a direct result of that very same love. As was my father’s and Betsy’s, and my aunt’s, because love means letting people do exactly what they want with what they have left of their own lives.

 

If today were the last day I’d pull up a chair on my patio and watch the sun curve toward the horizon and set the sky to dressing, again, in her evening’s best and toast her with a glass of wine. And then, I’d lay my heart down against the pulsing life of Mother Earth and breathe her life giving soil into my lungs, 

if today were the last day.