The Last Day

On the last day, I wrote a precocious letter to my mom, my dad, my first ex, my second ex, my in betweens, my church friends, my school friends and my work friends.

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On the last day, I transferred the ownership of my housing circumstances, my licenses, my possessions and my aspirations to pass forward.

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On the last day, I resigned from being a student, a teacher, a daughter, a friend and a prospective date.

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During the last morning, I drank my last cup of lemon ginger tea and ate my last piece of toast with hummus.

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For the last afternoon, I took a neighbourhood stroll and paused at new places that are also the last places.

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During the last hour, I climbed 18 storeys of an office building and tried to regulate my breathing to no avail.

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In the last minute, I became hyper-aware of the weight in every second as I gauged the reality of the edge.

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Before the last second, I mustered all my strength but my heart contended ahead.

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During that second, I thought about eleven years ago.

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Eleven years ago, I had my first thoughts of the last day.

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Seven years ago, I lied with my face down in the basement with a little bit of light coming from the window facing my backyard.

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Five years ago, I saw the world through greyscale lenses in my room, absorbed in the same songs that I sang 2 years before.

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Three years ago, I consistently fell through the floor without really falling.

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A year ago, I studied online and talked to my friends on zoom.

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A few months ago, I submitted 3 of my most competent poems to a contest.

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Last month, I texted a crisis hotline and the woman who I spoke to wanted to close the conversation while I voiced my concerns.

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Last week, I made arrangements to have more suitable people replace my identity and fill the major void that I had, an absence of lust for life.

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After that second, I overheard that sirens of all sorts circulated my deceased body as personnels mumbled in monotone.

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The next day, they continued to block the area where I experienced my downfall. The road was then opened and the traffic was normal, without a hint of what had occurred the day before. The letters were reluctantly accepted, the new ownership was hastily assumed and each identity was momentarily blurred. The morning and afternoon came and went with little hesitation, though in a spirit that spoke of an earnest anticipation for the day after.

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Eighteen years ago, I rode my bike down the sidewalk and watched an army of ants work for the entirety of an afternoon, a moment that elapsed with my heartbeat.