On That Day

There will come a day, perhaps tomorrow, when Death stands in my path and beckons me forward into his embrace with a skeletal finger that strikes fear into hearts of the bravest of men. If my life flashes before my eyes, I know how I would like to remember myself.

I want to remember myself as a man who loved Life. I want to remember looking her in the eyes, taking her hand, and feeling my heart rise in my throat as I say the words “I do”. I want to remember myself as a man who embraced her every day and whispered my affection into her ear every morning. I want to remember waking up and smiling because she’s the first thing I’ll see when I open my eyes, and feeling her warm, sweet breath on my shoulder every night before I fall asleep. I want to remember standing to defend her when her honour is at stake, and I want to remember that her enemies feared me as her champion. I want to remember fighting for her and winning in her name. I want to remember watching over her as she slept, and I want to remember adoring the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she drew breath. I want to remember the certainty in my heart that I would die to defend her. I want to remember the absolute certainty that she loved me in return.

I want to remember myself as the man who fucked Life. I want to remember the first time I kissed her and remember how her lip trembled as our faces met. I want to remember how her breath caught when I cupped her breast with my hand, and how she pressed herself against my chest while we kissed. I want to remember exploring her neck and collar with my tongue, and the small, helpless sounds she made as I softly kissed her shoulders. I want to remember the feel of her hands on my chest as she unbuttoned my shirt, and the indescribable rightness I felt the first time her bare breasts touched my chest. I want to remember the softness of the skin on her belly and the life-giving warmth that lay beneath it. I want to close my eyes and remember the taste of her mouth and the small gasp of fulfillment she made as she took me inside her body. I want to remember the roundness of her thighs and how she trembled under my hands and tongue. I want to remember the sound of her sweet and bestial voice in my ear as I filled her with pleasure, and the prophetic, fearsome purpose in her eyes as she took my seed into her body and felt the flutter of new life in her womb.

I want to be remembered as a father to Life’s children. I want to remember holding their hands and guarding their lives with my own. I want to remember guiding them and nurturing them, and teaching them above all other things to honour their mother. I want to remember holding them as they cry. I want to remember teaching them to have high expectations of others, and even higher expectations of themselves. I want to remember watching them graduate from childhood to become men and women of character and integrity. I want to remember seeing their mother’s intelligence and purpose in their eyes as they searched for their places, and I want to remember my pride as they exceed their father’s teachings and assume their rightful place as guardians, stewards, warriors, lovers, and parents.

So on that day, when Death stands in my path and beckons me forward into his embrace with a skeletal finger that strikes fear into the hearts of the bravest of men, if I have lived the life I dream to live – and if I’ve become the man I dream I can be – I know what I like to think I would do.

I like to think I would walk to his ghoulish form without breaking stride, extend my hand in friendship, and say “Hi. My name is Derek, and I’m the guy who fucked your sister, Life. She loved me and I loved her. You don’t look so tough.”

And I like to think he would laugh, a warm and human laugh, put his arm around me in camaraderie, and show me what waits beyond the veil of time.

Until that day, when Death bars my path, I can but work to create the man worth remembering.