Thinking of You

Dear Friends, let me send you a loveygram as I
mash these potatoes and likely look oh so busy tending the
turkey dinner on today, Thanksgiving Day, while the
husband goes for a run and the kids
feed the seamonkeys and the
frost begins to steam off of the brown oak leaves
at the warm-enough touch of the
first morning light.

You are all going to die.

You, my best friends, my Five, are not going to make it. Its just a
matter of when.

Later today there will be a moment of grace, and I'll join
hands around a table, as you will
probably too, and maybe we'll
float some fine
grace out to each other. Be thankful for each other. See
each other's faces in our minds, with a
warmish feel. So you know, this is what
I'll really mean.

I hope I get to be there when you die.

For you, One. For you, you'll want it to be just like your
wedding day. All the friends from
all the phases, family too, but the
friends first. I'll gather them to you. I'll set out
food and beverage and play good music and
we'll mingle around you. When death gets close, I'll curl up
with you and
whisper stories (I was always your
storyteller) and
talk you on a walk back through
all the good times. When its closer, I'll play your morphine just
right, and you'll be in your mind on your couch,
home,
endorphins going from a perfect day, your
little dog, long dead now, nestled
again between your knees, wife so bright and happy, a
taste of warm pumpkin pie and tea in your mouth. And
at your last
I'll talk you to the creek, kiss your cheek, and float you away.

Then you, Two, the terror will come. You will
fight it the whole way, panic, rage, and fear. I won't let them
play you Enya and
smooth your brow. I will not be polite,
not to your awful parents,
not to your bad husband,
not nobody. I will get you what you need and put out the
fire of fear
I know you've carried your whole life. Big, bad,
beautiful drugs. I will not
leave your bed. They will never
speak to me again, but I will see to you. You like the angel you
always were, never knew you were,
drifting, peaceful at last, my love over you, on an Ativan cloud.

And you, Three, you won't be concerned that you're dying, only
if you're doing it right.
Perfectionist, high maintenance, I'll know
all your picadillos. No one
may touch your pillow, or your face. No
scented lotions, the window always a crack open, and
I'll tell you
all the time
that the house is so clean
that the mail has been gone through
that the lawn is watered
that you're doing such a good job. You'll drive, I'll be shotgun,
and you will
never see my hand on the
bottom of the wheel
like it always was.

Oh my dear Four. For you, no fuss. You won't stand it. It is
never about you. I will fly so low under your radar and
all but ignore you until you're
ready
until you
ask
then I will come and hold you like my own baby in my
arms, your head on my chest
for the mother you
never had and
lullaby you kiss you sing you
to sleep, go to sleep, go now. You will.

Finally, my Five. You will delight in death, another
miracle gifted to you, celebrate with such joy such
beautiful blooms such peace, so radiant, divine. You always did
know how to live.
You will
suffer only that you wish you could
share this incredible thing with all whom you love.
How easy.
I won't
sleep, will press my ear to your
lips, listening, passing the electricity back and
forth with you, magic, miracle, floating
up with you
until you finally
just disappear.

Until then, my Five, we'll play it light. I'll send you socks on your
birthdays. Postcards of things I think
you might like, and
email quizzes meant to reveal what we
already know. As if every breath isn't bringing you closer
to death, your end, the end of us, this way. I know
what I know and I know what I wish and when I say
I'm here for you
this, this above all is so
much what I mean. I'll never tell.
You'd just all say,
its that nursing home job of yours getting
to your head.

I'll know, not so. Its just this simple truth
and my simple love
and I'll go ahead and make my plans
while finishing the potatoes and starting the
stuffing and saying, in a circle, my thoughts about you, all:
that I'm thankful for you
that I love you
that I hope I get to be there.