This, Too

A friend posted a meme on 
Facebook that directed us scrollers
to choose one from a grid of twelve.  
 
Options included items like:
 
          Being Able to Travel Anywhere Instantly
          Having the Largest Social Media Following in the World
          Being the Reigning Monarch of a Medium-Sized But Wealthy Country
          Winning a Five Hundred Million Dollar PowerBall. 
 
The option I chose was near the top of the list, 
and I knew it was my choice 
before I even read the others.  
 
          Pick Any Age to Be Forever. 
 
The age part wasn’t so important.  
          Twenty-five had been nice.
          Forty had redeeming moments.
          This age I am now, I have no quarrel with. 
 
No, the part that was important was
          “forever.” 
 
If I could be immortal 
and still a decent human being, 
like a
          fasting vampire 
then I could make all the choices.  
 
I could go back to school at
          87 to study architecture and then again at 
          142 to become a classical musician and
          309 to finally master quadratic equations. 
 
I could watch nations rise and fall and rise again.  
I could live in every country 
for a year or ten or as long as I want.
 
I could actually read every book on my shelf. 
 
I could 
          tango in Buenos Aires,
          can can in Paris,
          flamenco in Barcelona. 
 
Vampires live such interesting lives. 
I would take a version of that, 
          less tartare.
 
But it was just a meme,
and selecting one wish from a list
doesn’t make it come true,
 
so my options are limited.
My fresh starts aren’t infinite. 
The choices I’ve already made
came with consequences. 
 
I can’t live long enough to 
ease the remorse of poor decisions
          or
learn to avoid them altogether 
(a lesson obviously requiring 
a longer curriculum than 
one human 
life). 
 
If I could live forever, 
I might learn how
 
          to love you, 
          clear and clean,
          an endless supply
          without condition
          or renewal fees
 
          to not ever 
          leave you behind
         or alone
         or aghast
 
          to hold on
          as if this
          was our 
          one
          chance.
 
Instead, 
as it is, 
my choices have
sometimes driven a stake 
through your heart. 
 
          And mine.  
 
I won’t live 
long enough to learn how 
to make them right.  
I may not even
          ever 
          know 
I needed to try.  
 
The immortal hope - 
living through to perfection. 
 
The only mortal one -  
faulty, messy, 
honest love. 
 


© 2020 Deborah E. Moore, All Rights Reserved
 





   

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