If you only had one day left on this earth, who would be the last person you wanted to see? and what would you tell them before you were gone?
If I only had one day left on this earth, I’d get an early start, even before the sun came up. I rub my fingers along the steering wheel of the only car I ever bought brand new, and take it for a drive down the Pacific Coast Highway to El Matador Beach. I’d perch myself, carefully, on one of the throne-like boulders that dot the shoreline, and watch my last sunrise emerge from the expansive sea. Then, with my windows down, I’d drive back towards Glendale, stopping along the way to get a mango from a roadside fruit vendor who’d be setting up his stand for the day. I’d speak my very best Spanish (which is only just okay) and tip him double the price of the fruit. As I pulled up to my mom’s house, I’d laugh at the crack in the mailbox from a tricycle accident that we never fixed, and draw in a deep breath of the fragrant Goldcrest Cypress she has planted along the walkway. We’d go out for a lazy breakfast (she was never much of a cook), my treat, and I while we decided which syrup we preferred, I’d decide not to tell my mom I was leaving this world, because I always prefer her glorious smile to her wretched tears.
Afterwards, I’d head down to my office while everyone was out for lunch, and take the password off my computer, delete all the Joanna Newsom albums, and change my screensaver back to the UCLA logo. I’d rename all my folders to things that would make sense to someone other than me, and print out all my unfinished research that might actually amount to something someday–working quickly, since I’d want to be gone before the others got back. Then, I’d give each monkey a treat (giving Cecil two), and go back to my apartment. There, I’d read some of my diary, clean up a little, dust the picture of Penny and me, and play my harp one last time.
Then I would cry.
I’d cry because I wouldn’t want to die so soon. I’d cry because I hadn’t reached all my goals. I’d cry because it was my last day, and instead of being uber-productive and going down in a blaze of glory, I was sitting idly, having a pathetic pity party alone. Mostly, though, I would cry because I spent a lot of time on this earth very, very lonely, and finally, when I finally have people to live for, and who have brought me into their lives…my time would be cut short.
And in that moment I would smile. Because I would realize that the memories I would take with me and the love I would leave behind meant I had not lived a life in vain.
And that’s when I would dab my eyes dry, pin my hair back, grab my purse, and take the stairs down to the parking lot for one last trip. I’d knock on his door (three times, just because) and wait for him to answer. I’d know he’s home, because it’s Thai Night, and he is nothing if not constant. It’s one of the things I love about him.
When he opened the door, I’d look for the longing on his face that I very much hope would be there. When he stepped out into the hall, surprised and confused, I’d tell him that I was sorry. That I should not have let so many weeks go by without reaching out to him. That I still love him as much–MORE–than I ever have. I would tell him thank you. For his admiration. For his loyalty. For his love. And that my greatest days were those I spent by his side. Then…
I’d tell him the truth. That this was it. The very last day. I’d tell him because he deserves the truth…my truth. I’d tell him that, even though this is the end, he shouldn't be sad or afraid, but joyful, because we were lucky. So, so lucky. For people like us, to find love and to love in return is just…the greatest thing. Through fresh tears, I’d beg him to be brave because we all have to go some time, but I’d remind him that I’m not gone yet. And then I’d ask him–if he’d be so kind–to love me once again, for just one more night. One more time.
Enough to last for eternity.