Sometimes it catches me. In the day by the fire, at night in a restless turn or in the car watching a pretty girl at the the traffic lights. I am going to die. It catches me so that I can hear the ping of the heart monitor, feel the too white, too hard sheets and smell the ozone and the iodoform of the hospital passage ways.
I believe I have it resolved. But one day, and not too far away now, my doctor will reach out her hand and rub the back of mine with her thumb, she will look me in eyes and she will tell me I am dying. I have always known that, but she will give me a date. I will hear it as a heavy door swinging shut behind me, and I will hear the snick as the lock snaps gently home. There will be no way back.
I say I will have no regrets. But I will. I will resent those left behind to eat fish and chips, to get a white moustache from a creamy head of beer, to see the daffodils next spring and to smell the crazy-making scent of my wife. I will curse them and be eaten by envy.
Meditating on my seat, in the dappled light of the afternoon I sink down, the tears fall and I let myself tumble backwards into the arms of the universe. But there is no need, the arms of the universe are already enfolded about me. If only I could remember.
An afterword
A while ago, I had a cancer "scare." It was not easy, and while I was waiting to get the results of the tests I re-read this piece. I would not change anything.