I am going to miss me.
It is not clear when I died, how or under what circumstances. I did think I died many times but it wasn't the end.
I didn't die in a car crash. I didn't die in an exploding crashing airplane everytime I flew to or from home. I didn't die on the back of that fast bike with that guy I picked up on the beach in southern California. I didn't die in that beat up truck driving across the desert with the cowboy and his dog Ridge. I'm serious. That homeless heroin addict didn't kill me the night he crawled through my window on north Milwaukee Avenue.
Nope, I didn't die of anything I thought I'd die from, like a broken heart, or a Broadway bus slamming me into a street lamp at two in the morning. Or the window washer that fell from a high-rise and slammed into the sidewalk inches from my feet. That one was in the late 70's. I didn't die from happiness or contentment, although I came close a few times.
I knew when it was happening though. The dying part. It wasn't a surprise. And, because I knew and I saw others dying around me, I paid particular attention to the sky, eating chocolate, walking my dogs, washing dishes, listening to the mundane, dancing to the music, struggling with the here and now and loving as many people as I knew how.
I'm not in heaven and I'm not in hell and I'm still around; I just don't know what I'm around. I might be an idea now. I might be a good deed or good joke or poem. And remember that and that I miss you too.
S. D. G.