Upon My Death

I move the yellowing envelope between my fingers. The memories of what lie on those pages are vague at best.Words scribed on what was supposed to be words of wisdom, encouragement, for my son years after my death. At the right time the discovery of these words would bring solace and reflection to an adult I may not know. Yet holding the document now held no consolation and merely the most bitter of reflection.

My own obsolete intent is a testament to my shameful arrogance of what I thought the future held. How often do we make bold assumptions on what will occur? How often do we plan what we will do in some future moment with a certainty that strikes against the firm logic that anything can happen any time for any reason?

So many years have transpired. Often I think back to my illness, to my newborn son that I held solemnly in my arms. I did not consider I would see a year or two and yet here I am twenty two years later - alone. The words of encouragement, perspective, of life that most assuredly wrote now seem hollow and pointless. Why even break the seal of time and read words that were meant for another. Words that will never be received by the one they were meant for. Sadness roils my gut and clouds my vision with tears. My hands tremble, shaking the faded packet. My thoughts of destroying it are fought by a sense that the words may not entirely have been intended for my future son – lost, but for the my future self, filled with self-pity and responsibility for a young life. I trace my fingers along the words on the envelope’s surface as if I truly understand that it was destined for me.

Upon my death