After I’m Gone

Before I’m lost to time and illness
I want to say I had a full life, slept
out in the rain, paddled canoes,
swam laps, danced all night.

Before I’m lost to time and illness,
I want to say I hiked miles of trails,
worked on my car, played my flute,
wrote poetry, sang songs.

Before I’m gone, I want you to know
I loved crowds and concerts, Courvoisier
and chocolate, loved clean sheets,
a good laugh, new earrings.

Before I’m lost to time and illness,
I want to say there was never enough,
so much left undone, so much more
I wanted to do.

After I’m gone, I hope you remember
I knew how to embroider intricate patterns,
design and build houses, listen to friends,
solve problems, express myself with words.

After I’m gone, I will haunt you every time
you pick up a salamander, find a spider,
sleep in a tent, pee in the woods, paddle
down the river.

After I’m gone, I hope you enjoy campfires,
the Sunday bacon, authentic communication,
music, poetry, appreciate your good health,
love each other.

After I’m gone, I hope you know I will be there
every time you listen to Moonlight Sonata, hike
a trail, dive into a pool, hear katydids, consider
your own face in the mirror.