This Cannot Be Me

After Black Stone on Top of a White Stone by César Vallejo

I shall probably be surprised the day I die – short sense of, "Oh, no, this cannot be me." I still have things to do: The laundry's not done; nor are the dishes. Novels I finally started will lay unfinished at my feet, the one I am writing and the other ones I'm reading. My latest play will be opening on Broadway, and I won't see it. I will probably be out of the country – whose country I'll be in, I don't know. I will be old and wrinkled; though, proudly, in my hair, a few strands of brown will stand out amongst the gray. My skin underneath my clothes will be surprisingly supple. My muscles will still be strong. Hearing all the little noises in the night will no longer be a burden. I will have my teeth, well most of them. My organs will be efficiently humming along, so it will be an unbalancing moment for me – a little shock. I won't have thought it would happen then. I will have had a good life and long, very long by most standards, though short by my own, because each new growth step seems to take me longer to conquer. I'd like to think I would be ready, that I would have everything in order, but I'm sure there will be lots left on my list of things to do.

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