I�m not sure what day of the year it would be exactly. I�d really like it to be Nov. 3rd, my birthday, but I had fancied on this day being fairly warm weather and so maybe July would be more appropriate. When I wake up it�s raining. Not the kind of heavy down pour of the tropics, but more of a Vancouver shower that is dark and brisk and oh so constant.
I would stretch. Not too much but enough so that I could feel my body and enjoy it. I would stir the ashes of my fire and build it again so that it would be cozy, warm and small; make myself a nice, hot cup of tea with milk and honey, and relax in a chair.
I�d look around my own log cabin in the interior of BC and remember everything inside and the stories each thing had. The plates and glasses from my late mother. Old photos and beautiful junk given to me from father. A busted TV and VCR that still had the tape of my sisters first low-budget movie inside. All the crap I had built over the years, to make my life a little more comfortable. Why�? I would ask myself. Whatever.
And then I would finish reading the last chapter of a book that I had refused to finish for a few years and would cry when the main character inside finally found solace in his own life. I would try to remember my youth and all the ways I tried to fight who I was and all the people I had hurt and helped and then I would remember something really ridiculous I had said or done and laugh so hard about it and stop.
Life would strike me then.
And I would get up and throw on some beautiful music that would make me dance in the way that only I can and would make one huge, kick ass breakfast. Sushi and bread and brie and pasta and chickpeas and tofu and there is no way I would finish it all even though I would desperately want to try. My dog would come in when I opened the door and I would cuddle the cute old bitch and let her take what she would of the bad vegetarian food. And I would wrestle with her and kiss her face and she would lick my hands and head and I would turn her loose. I would look around my small little hermits hobble and realize (maybe) that today was my 51st birthday and that would strike me as fantastic.
And I would go to my corner and pul out the knife and the boxes and open them up and look at all the memories. Old photos of travel and mirth. Girlfriends and lovers and friends. Adventure and disastrous outcomes. Trinkets. Clothes. Books. Maps. Letters.
I�d remember. And I�d take my knife and dust it off and smile. I�d go to my photo album and open it up on my kids and their mothers and wonder what they were doing and recall that how happy their two moms were when each of them were born. I�d remember looking into their eyes. I�d remember the sparkle. I�d remember everything about my children.
Wind stops and rain has a break and I�d go outside and look up at the sun breaking through. I�d go to my fridge and empty it, leave it all on the floor and open everything up in my house.
and I�d take a painting I had been working on and a favorite poem that I had kept for this occasion.
Walk deep in to the woods until I find a pool or stream and swim or bath. I�d sing. Get so clean that I would feel as though nothing could ever befoul my body again and then, naked I would keep walking until I found the right spot.
Kneel and remember. Remember my promise and God and everything that brought me to the edge. Meditate, pray. Then check.
And if I was happy, which I would be, the tears would roll and the smile would never again fade away. And as the happiest person in the world, I would take my own life and not because I was sad or angry. Not because I wanted to punish myself or somebody else. Not because I didn�t want to live anymore.
But simply because I had finally decided to accept the truth.
I was ready.
And the wet white constant rain would come down and as everything was fading out I would tell myself �I love you, Geordie� and run into the light.
And that would be the most perfect day of my life.