May the crepe myrtles weep

When I die, I hope the crepe myrtle weeps, and spills its petals upon the ground in the brilliant way it litters the world each Spring. I hope the wind kicks them up, like a despondent child at fallen leaves, and whirls them about in fantastic little cyclones. I hope that the rain falls warm through the midafternoon sun, and coats the exposed shoulders of a couple cozied tight with balmy drops. I hope a thousand little frogs convene at twilight to rejoice in a lifegiving shower. 

I hope the little dipper hangs low over the Texas hill country, following a brilliant sunset that blankets its rolling slopes in layered light. I hope, somewhere, the butterflies are journeying to some place warm. I hope they envelope someone else who will start at their enchantment. I hope that when the moon rises to take its place in the sky, the world falls hush. I hope the breeze will stop and the road noise will cease. And for a moment in time, as the sun sets on the last day I took breath, the world stops for an infinitesimal second to see me out. 

I hope it’s a regular Tuesday. I hope teenagers fall in love and someone got the job. I hope a young girl moves out on her own. I hope a dog gets adopted. I hope to slip quietly into oblivion in the delicate way I walked the Earth, careful not to move anything. I hope I leave as the sun warms the last Winter day, when hope returns to the planet.

Perhaps when the moon crests the sky, somewhere out there, someone will feel the wind hitch. They will notice the world fall silent. Maybe I’ll brush their arm as I go. I wish not to scorch the earth, but I hope that I’ve left as much sweetness as I’ve consumed, and that perhaps the cosmos shall curtsy, just so, as I go.

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