My father adds to the list.
When I— if I— (he corrects himself
to the less sinister
but more than likely inaccurate
conjunction)
if I die,
make sure the first thing your mother does
with the life insurance
is get the pipes replaced.
It will be expensive.
But they are old.
We both know that nothing short
of a well-aimed meteor
will convince my mother to change residence.
I add the pipes
to my father’s Post-Death
Mental Wish-List, right behind
Make sure your mother
doesn’t start collecting too many things
and closing herself in like your aunt.
(Prevent fire hazards.)
When your mother gets old
make sure that when she eats
she chews well enough
and always has a drink around.
She is prone to coughing
while she eats.
(Learn Heimlich.)
Try to convince your mother to move.
This is not the best neighborhood.
But since we both know she won’t,
just make sure she locks the doors
and doesn’t start letting strangers in.
(Maintain common sense.)
For him,
preparing for death
is simply like packing lunch
the night before. Not a production,
just a habit.
My mother is at the store right now
picking up a few straggling ingredients
for the dinner my father
has begun to eat on the stove.
I lean in the doorway to the kitchen
listening to his request as the phone rings.
He stirs the vegetables in the pan,
letting the machine take the call.
It beeps. It’s his wife—
“Hello-ooo. Pick up the phooone.
Hellooo-ooo. Pick up the phoo-ooone.”
He leaves the pan and looks around.
The phone is off the hook
and not resting on nearby counters.
Damn it.
“It’s meee, pick up the phooone.”
My father’s annoyance grows
to panic. The voice pauses
to give him a moment.
Then,
“It’s in the living roooom….”
He relaxes. Finds the phone
on the side table near the couch.
They didn’t have the sauce he wanted, she says.
She had to go to another store
and will be home soon.
He laughs a bit. He is content. Yet
all the while, the brown paper lunch bag
is in the back of his head, floating
above a cold, dark shelf, and
my definition of love
grows beside it.