Thanatopsis

Early 60s, still young in the big scheme of things,

retired but feeling old, sometimes, life changing, no light

yet at the end of a tunnel, but some days I’m feeling 

the pull of age and mortality, so my wife and I figured

we’d help out the children, adults now and mortal themselves,

help them financially before that time comes, our time to go

toward the light, lately a distant prick growing brighter,

so we bought a headstone bearing our names, dates

of origin and the dash that is our lives, awaiting

that final date to be chiseled in, a simple marble stone

to remember us by, kept mowed and maintained 

by perpetual care included in the cost of dying.

And then we forgot about it once it was installed,

ready for occupancy, like a new home, forgotten

as we seldom think about our own passing, too early for that.

Later 60s, older, and starting to grapple with the effects

of the years behind us, new aches and pains, new

limitations, and a few pounds added around our middles,

a little more worn and weary and tired, eyes growing dim, sound

less clear, but this squirrel, trapped at last, must be released, 

relocated, and he’s earned himself a trip, a new home, a vacation, 

so off we went, he and I, a quick drive to a cemetery drop off

just up the road, too lazy to take him further away, as commanded;

and there it sat, unseen till now, this marble marker announcing my death, 

well-maintained, but weather-worn already, my name in perfect print.

Taken aback, I stopped; there was “1954” and the short dash

awaiting another number, a finality to this life I’m still living.

I’m not afraid of death and what comes next, whatever, hell even, 

if that’s my earnéd fate, good as I’ve tried to be, death welcomed

when I die, perhaps a reward for living, but to see my own name now

on a gravestone as if I’ve already gone, already taken that last walk

along a darkened tunnel toward a light glowing, unsure exactly what it is,

Heaven, Hell, something else, a light to lead me to that final rest,

something to light my way lest I fall, tripping in the unfamiliar 

darkness of death and limping into the grave with bruised knees and shins,

to see my own name carved there, seeing maybe my own end, it is unsettling 

and got me to thinking about my own life, my own mortality,

wondering if I’ve accomplished everything I set out to do, 

accomplished anything at all, left my mark on the world

and am deserving of this public spot, this monument, this grave

etched now for eternity, for the family to remember me by,

for some future explorer to find, an old moss-covered stone 

in the “old cemetery,” wondering who I was, what I had done, 

curious how I had died, knowing only a name, an origin, and an ending

connected by a dash, a short life lived in the expanse of the universe.

So I lay myself down where my coffin might be lowered at some 

future date, a few years, maybe next week, or 20-30 years from now,

or more, who can tell, just laying myself down to try it out, see how it fit,

imagining myself six feet under, a satin pillow under my head,

my arms crossed or resting on my stomach, hands joined, an image

of me napping on the couch, a Sunday afternoon nap, my eyes closed,

shutting out the light, total darkness, but snoring gently, a loud snort 

from time to time, startled; in this darkness, though, no one can shut out sound 

even in death, not the traffic headed north to the lake, or south, returning, 

nor the voices of well-wishers, tombstone hunters wandering among the stones

looking for old friends, or just the curious scouring the ages past, 

perhaps even an old man relocating a squirrel, a caged chattering loud

and the rustle of feet running into the brush, tiny feet across the dry leaves 

scurrying, which is why I came here today, my assigned task.

It was comforting, the noises I imagined, the sounds of footfalls

soft above me and the sweet songs of birds sweetly sung, the evening

croak of frogs and toads, the call of the eagle and hawk circling,

the yip of a fox, a vixen for her kits, the low grunt of a coon

or skunk, snow falling, and the tears of the living left behind shed 

for one who has gone before, for life does go on, as does my own life this day.

Rising, I brush off the thoughts of death and dying and the seat

of my pants. We are far removed from the grave, this squirrel and I, 

so I took him home, let him go to be caught another day, for today, 

this day, we are alive, free to be, free to be home, free to be alive,

death defeated for another day, another time, settled.