I left my plants,
the watering can,
the instructions for my neighbour on how to tend them
(please also sing to them weekly).
I left twenty bottles of Okanagan wine in the cupboard,
and a nearly full bottle of whiskey.
I left behind my Pez dispensers,
Tweety Bird, Superman, Inspector Clouseau,
candy still in their bellies.
I left behind my paintings,
the ones I would sit, viewing,
a cup of tea in hand,
and get lost in the colours and my imagination.
I left behind my bed
where I slept and dreamed of sad and magical things,
where I read books that took me to far-off lands
and into the fascinating stories of other people,
both real and imaginary.
I left behind my treasures,
those few things gifted to me by the people I love,
that take up so little space,
but fill my heart with joy.
I left behind my books,
those favourite hundred or so that
continue to survive my frequent trimmings,
whose stories and wisdom will carry me
to the end of my days.
I imagine all those things patiently awaiting my return,
soundlessly inert,
without consciousness,
but not without meaning
or the ability to stir emotion.
When I return, I will have aged,
hopefully gained wisdom,
gotten better, like my wine.
But most of my things will not have changed at all.
Like immortals.
I hope the plants survive.