If You Die Before Me

If you die before me . . .
         I will reach out with cold feet, seeking the warmth of yours,
         and find nothing but the depression you left in the mattress
         in the place where you should be.
         I will face cold nights and shiver alone forever
         and plan never to wash the comforter again.
         I will say to myself, “That is gross,”
         and I know for certain that I will not care.

If you die before me . . .
         The dog will sit beside the bed, watching me,
         and wonder why you gave him no relief after the long night.
         You will not awaken me with your closet light
         or your search for clean socks.
         The familiar routine will elude me.
         I will experience no guilt for having stayed in bed
         and left you to your own devices for breakfast.

If you die before me . . .
         We will not compete for use of the lone bathroom
         and your thread-bare burgundy towel will not be thrown
         over the shower curtain rod.
         You will not drop your crumpled under shorts where the hamper
         should be or step on the toe of your sock
         while pulling hard to free your other foot.
         I will launder your clothes one last time, and afterward,
         your under shorts will remain neatly stacked
         and you socks will retain their elasticity.

If you die before me . . .
         In the kitchen, there will be no ring of dried water
         on the table where you drank your hot tea.
         The sugar bowl will be stowed in the cabinet –
         a reminder that it was not used by you.
         Sunday will come and I will not catch you wearing
         your “work shoes” when you should be wearing
         your “church shoes.”
         Your filthy burgundy loafers will sit empty by the door,
         and I will never be able to fill them.

If you die before me. . .
         I will make no pretense of taking Skeeter out
         when he scratches at the door
         for you will not be there to rescue me from that cold task.
         I will step gingerly onto the unshoveled walk,
         see the snow-covered drive . . . and weep.
         For I will no longer be awed by the beauty of snow,
         but will, instead, feel overwhelmed by the length of the driveway.
         Your red Civic will sit covered in white
         and I will only think that it needs to be sold . . .
         and that strangers will come to look at it.

If you die before me . . .
         I will stomp the snow off my feet
         and drop the newspaper on the table;
         but it will not be read by you.
         You will not “see me” in the comics
         or keep me posted on current events.
         I will be uninformed without you
         when I refuse to read or watch the news.
         You will not fall asleep nightly in front of the TV . . .
         and no one will hear me complain about being neglected.
         I can sit at the computer in the basement as long as I want,
         and I will not be missed. But, I will be missing you.

If you die before me . . .
         The bushes will be overgrown for lack of trimming
         and the pile of brush will decay
         before I ever break the law to burn it.
         I can dig up the moss, kill the weeds and reseed the
         yard if I am so inclined;
         But if I take on more than I can handle,
         you will not be there to finish the job.
         Our yard may grow wild, but I will not worry
         that another tree will pin your neck against the neighbor’s fence
         or that you will tumble out of one.

If you die before me . . .
         There will be no more disagreements about saving
         for retirement or how much life insurance we need.
         We will no longer dream of vacationing in Hawaii
         while visiting your parents in Florida.
         I will not harp at you about your driving habits.
         I can travel at will and at the speed limit;
         but I hate road trips, and where will I fly alone?

If you die before me . . .
         I will see your smile twinkling in Carly’s brown eyes
         and your competitive spirit in the way she throws down
         her winning Euchre hand.
         I will hear your laughter echoing in Aubry’s
         and remember your relentless teasing
         when I am the brunt of her jokes.
         But most of all, I will look back at you
         with filtered lens and capture memories
         in images with air-brushed edges.

                                       


Submitted to the Circle of Sisters' Shining Star Contest on 02/15/07.