Making Future Plans
As if it were an option
I begin to imagine myself standing
in my mother’s kitchen.
I have just returned from a run.
I am making tea. She is making coffee.
I spoon out honey, cream, and then
we both sit—pass another hour just talking.
About what, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.
A neighbor knocks on the door to tell us something
insignificant. We observe
the cat running through the house—a sure sign
that he has just pooped. We cheer him on,
A pair of cranes walk past the pond,
gurgling. They are so elegant and awkward.
We plan our day. It’s simple.
Eat. Walk. Savor
the sun, the heat,
the fact of our togetherness,
of our exclusive, uninterrupted time
which (like Christmas) only happens
once a year.
Pull a chair up to the ocean. Marvel
at the breeze
as if it will not be our last breeze. Marvel
at the day
as if it will not be
our last day.
Take a selfie. Marvel
at our big, toothy, ignorant grins.
by Michelle Meyer
Editor’s Note: The imagery in this poem is crystal clear and all the more wrenching when the final two lines tell the reader what is true.