When my lungs no longer take in and expel OXYGEN, and the 21 elements that make up this human flesh cease to orchestrate themselves into mobility, I will leave behind to you, my beloved, the following….
*The sun and moon salt and pepper shakers, the ones we bought at the antique shop in Aguas Calientes on our tenth anniversary, and filled with salt from the Maras mines because we thought it was cool, but not cool enough to ever use.
*The box of #2 pencils in the top drawer of my writing desk (please throw out the old, nubby ones and start anew); they are full of possibility, and really that may be the best thing I can leave you.
*The 1928 buffalo nickel my father left to me. The one that he gave to me when his father died. The one that I would have given to a son, if we’d had one.
*The copper bracelet adorned with native symbols I never wore. I know you bought it for me out of love; you thought it had healing qualities because the woman at the reservation told you so. Told you that it would take away my pain. I should have worn it, even just once. Maybe just to see if she was right.
*The silver money clip with my initials etched into the metal. The one you gifted me the night before we wed. The one I kept in my pocket for 47 years, every day. The contents never mattered, only that it was from you.
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