I’m not here yet (writing like this) but I am getting there. In the meantime, read my friend and colleague’s ballad, and see if you don’t choke up.
I hope that right before it happens
I do something heroic,
but knowing me and how I panic,
I more than probably won’t.
I hope I’m wearing something cute.
I wonder about my hair.
I hope I look good on the floor.
I hope I say more than “don’t shoot.”
I keep on saying hope.
I hope, I hope, I hope.
But hope? I actually don’t have much.
I think it’s mostly luck—
If I have to die in class, I hope
I’ve just said something noble
that really made them think.
I hope I’m really quotable.
What else? I didn’t stay up late
to finish grading papers.
I made love to my husband instead—
I barely let him out of bed.
When I dropped my son off at school,
“I love you,” “I love you too”
is what we said. It’s what we say
so many times every day.
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