Let Me Tell You About the Day I Died

Let Me Tell You About The Day I Died

Let me tell you what I remember

About the day I died.

I’d like to say

The birds were singing

The sun was shining

And I woke up with a smile.

But the truth is,

And the truth is important,

That I don’t remember.

There was no rain,

And, as it was spring,

There was likely a bird or two.

You hear people say,

“In the end,

It’s the little things that matter.”

That’s truth, it is,

But it isn’t.

And it’s not their fault,

They don’t know,

Can’t know,

Because it isn’t the end for them.

Close, yes,

But, at the end,

The very end,

When vision fades,

There are no words.

Only breaths,

One, then another,

And sound.

I didn’t see my life,

Which they also said would happen.

I heard it,

Hours, years,

In a moment,

As I passed.

The Carpenters,

As performed by a music box,

A song to which I knew no words.

The jump-up excitement

Of Benny Goodman

And his slow, nameless instrumentals

To which they danced

Across the living room,

When I was a child.

There were Motown medleys,

A healthy dose of grunge,

Classical, folk, jazz and the blues,
Even a little country,

And more 80s pop

Than strictly necessary.

(Not that I complained,

Never.)

Hallelujahs, Famous Blue Raincoats,

The Smiths, of course,
Singing me to sleep,

And The Beatles,

A thousand others,

Carrying me into,

And back out of,

My life.

Conjuring faces,
Memories, people, places,
Things I'd lost,
Some found, some not,
Heartbreak and hope

Fade to Black,

Because he said it was his,

Hang,

Because I said it was his.

All in All,

A touch of Sarah McLachlan,

And some Mazzy Star,

For her.

Near the end,

And I knew it was,
In that way you do,

The Counting Crows

And memories of two children

Sitting in the grass

Of my grandmother’s house

In a world no one else saw.

Finally,

As the music faded,

I heard her singing to me,

Maybe she was,

I could almost feel her hand,

That I was her sunshine.

And I was happy.

-Z. Hebert

05/22/12