The wonderful people at reverb10 have sent their manna-like prompt to my inbox and although it arrived yesterday morning, I have been too busy (read: distracted) by other things (patches of sunlight in London, my terribly painful foot and my lack of willpower when it comes to chocolate).
I only managed to take out time to think about it and how I wanted to respond to it yesterday evening.
The prompt itself is a little sad and could inspire feelings of melancholy and elicit perhaps unwelcome thoughts and reminisces.
I turned it on its head. It’s a thought-provoking prompt and one that makes me realise, when I actually follow the instructions and really use my imagination, just how much certain people and things mean to me and how little others do too.
If March 2011 was your last month to live, how would you live it?
Well…«« I’d marry this guy in an instant.
I wouldn’t think about it, agonise over it, spend my time looking for the perfect dress, the perfect flowers, the perfect music. The perfect music is the sound of his laughter. The perfect dress would be whatever I was wearing when I said “I do”. The perfect flowers would be those in my hand that I would have scooped from whichever passing meadow.
This is Mister and he is my heart.
I’d marry him on a beach somewhere or perhaps in a field. It wouldn’t be gaudy, it wouldn’t be stuffy and the people with us would be our families and perhaps a smattering of close friends. I don’t expect I would too much care. The only face I’d see would be his anyway.
And then we’d honeymoon for a time. Pack our bags and step on a plane and take off into that azure blanket that is the sky. I’d stand on white sand and in aquamarine oceans. I’d take huge, grateful lungfuls of tropical flowers that don’t grow through the cracks in the grey London concrete. I’d point at things; buildings, animals, signposts that I’d never seen before and I’d do it all with him. I’d hold his hand and explore, each step bringing us a little further on the last adventure we’d take.
We’d come back of course, before my time was up and I would spend a little more time having him read to me in that voice that quells my panic and tames my freakouts and soothes my pain. I’d spend a few nights tucking my ice cold feet between his perpetually warm ones and drinking in his smell. I’d gorge myself on his words, on his smile, on his presence. And, at those ludicrous times of morning when he wakes up because he’s weird and his body clock is haywire, I wouldn’t bundle up in the duvet and mutter that he’s crazy, I would wake up with him and potter about the house with him or go for a walk with him or perform Tibetan chants with him or whatever the hell it is he does at those ungodly times of day.
I would tell him every last thing about me; everything because even though he knows pretty much everything about me, there are still some things that stick in my throat, that I find hard to say because I’ve convinced myself that they are too imperfect to be accepted. I would sing to him and let him cop a few more feels because I think that makes him happy.
There are other things I would do, of course.
I would empty my bank accounts and squander my savings on things that might seem impractical right now. I would write letters to my family and let them know that they are the foundations that keep me from crumbling. I would take out the time to sprinkle thank yous like fairy dust over the lives of everyone I owe something to.
I would eat without scrutinising calories. Tipping candy and Krispy Kremes into my shopping cart without a second thought. I might leave the earth overweight but I’d leave it with a smile – a sugar encrusted smile.
I’d immerse myself in words and in pictures and in love.
I’d make sure my friends knew how much they meant to me.
I’d sit with my dad and ask him not be sad after I’d gone; kiss his cheek and hold his hand and make him laugh. I’d bottle that laugh and keep it close to my heart.
I’d envelope my mum in hugs and promise to visit her in her dreams.
But mostly, I would assume sponge status and soak up every last little bit of Mister that I could. Because I love him with an intensity that takes my breath away. Because he has made my life shinier and a little more yellow. Because he looks at me and doesn’t see excess weight and past surgeries to correct intestinal defects. Because he fuses his dreams with mine and my happiness is paramount for him. Because he waited to say “I love you” until he was certain that it was something that wouldn’t fade.
And that’s because six years down the line, my stomach still leaps when I see him.
Who wouldn’t want a month full of little leaps?
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Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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