I walk in the door and am

Blasted with formaldehyde.

You must be used to that smell by now.

Your eyes are covered

But your lips and teeth remain exposed.

It’s easy to imagine how your smile

Once lit up a room.

They rattle off a list

Of your medical problems

As if that’s what makes you you.

I want to know what made you get out of bed in the morning,

Not that you had a hysterectomy.

I want to know whether you had regrets in your final days,

Not that you had high blood pressure.

I want to know the stories you want told at your funeral,

Not the date of your left knee replacement.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m in the wrong place

If I care too much

About what others might deem trivial.

But maybe I should be here

All the more because of that.

Today I googled the definition of bequest

It said simply: “legacy”.

I wonder about your legacy

And wonder about mine.