All those countless centuries
before I was born it wasn’t so bad.
I didn’t feel a thing.
Is this what it’s like when we die?
Do we just cease to exist?
Or do the angels fly out to greet us,
skimming over the bright green fields?
You never know.
When I had breakfast
at the Senior Living Center,
the women all around us
in their flowery blouses,
and the men in their motorized chairs,
chatted and laughed at their little tables
like kids in a school cafeteria,
and the sun streaked through the windows,
and the oatmeal steamed in our bowls,
and even my hunched and befuddled father
was smiling for a moment,
I couldn’t have been
more surprised: how happy I was.