If this were the last day of my life… 

First, I would banish all thoughts of bills, and debts, and banks, and cranks.  I would ignore all the little pains I feel routinely, and all the distractions from one and all that were merely tossed my way to get my attention.  I would drink a glass of chilled wine—Riesling.  Not the most expensive, just the same vintage that I always drink.  I’d proclaim it the “nectar of the gods,” just as I always do.  That would be followed by toast and coffee.  Nothing more.   I would wish for one thing only—rain.  Yes, I would go for one final walk in the rain, but this time I would catch drops of it on my tongue, and let the rain splash on my face while smiling at the dark clouds.  I would greet everyone who had the good sense to be out and about in that wonderfully clean air while feeling Nature at her best.   

When I returned, I’d turn on my computer and write a final note to my e-mailers—all 250 of them.  I would thank them for their kind attention for having absorbed my incessant mailings for so long. I would tell them I love them knowing that thought alone would drive half of them to think I’d already gone off the deep end.  And I would wish them all an interesting life filled with problems, and challenges, and opportunities.   

I would call my grand kids and tell them that their parents are a lot smarter than they act, and that it was their deepest responsibility to put up with them and to love them always, no matter what.  Then I would simply ask their parents to think of me once in awhile—when it rains and they are tied up in traffic. That likely would also get them to thinking I was a basket case. 

I would drive to the golf course and ask to be teamed up with a couple of strangers.  I would play my usual game, just good enough to not hold up play, but a few shots worse than they were playing.  I’d ask them about their families, who were their favorite comedians, and why they liked to play golf.  When we were finished I’d give them all my clubs, balls, and equipment.   

I would call a lady friend from the distant past.  I’d tell her that I had carried a torch for her too long to not let her know.  Then I would share a secret:   I’d tell her that although we were not meant to be lovers, that I had often thought of her while making love—and it was really good.  Then I would thank her, call her by the wrong name, and hang up. 

I would feed the cats and feel their warmth for the last time.  They seem to know about these things. 

I would save the best for last.  I would make a pizza and salad for my wife and me, and serve it on our lanai.  I would light two candles.  I would pipe in music from my favorite list, beginning with Clair de Lune, followed by an endless list of old favorites and smooth jazz.  We would talk about whatever was on her mind.  And we would dance. Slowly.  I would caress her hair, and breathe deeply of her enchanting aromas.  I would not tell her that I love her.  That would make her suspicious.  I would ask her if she knows I love her, hoping only to hear one word: Yes. 

I also would not heed Dylan Thomas’s advice.  What do young poets half my age know?   

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Not me.  I would want only to feel that my feeble life had meant something to somebody.  She and I would curl up in bed together.  I would hope to fly away with the warmth of her body next to mine. I would wish her a good night, seal it with a kiss—and ask for the falling rain as my parting gift.