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Every once in a while my mind will turn briefly to the reality of death, like when my plane drops suddenly from turbulence, or when, on a highway with no shoulder, a semi flies past and shrugs a great gust of air into my lane, urging the wheel to swerve dangerously in my hands.
I usually feel a certain measure of calm in these moments. I tell myself that I lived well, have no regrets really, and wonder idly if I might have the chance to get out one last message if this were really the end. Whether I might scrawl it out hastily across a torn piece of notebook paper or whisper my final words into the ears of some solemn, saintly EMT as he feels my pulse slip away. Words that could be known and kept for later, to be revealed to old friends and enemies alike in hushed tones in dark hallways. Such words could frame my death, not as meaningless or wasteful, but with a nice gravity of tragic forethought.
What I think I might say as the life drains away from me changes every time I have these little mortal reminders, but lately I’ve thought that a proper apology would be in order for my numerous, frustrating shortcomings. Principal among these would have to be my inability to communicate, especially with friends and loved ones who live far away.
Well, I’m sorry. If you’ve managed to get through the rambling preamble, you have your apology and now we won’t have to worry that my pen might run out of ink as the sink is shipping, leaving my words lost like so many tears in the rain (that’s a Blade Runner reference, for those of you who lack culture).
I apologize for doing such a poor job of keeping in touch, but know always that those who I counted once as a friend I will count always, and no matter how much we may become separated by distance or time, you will always have a friend in me.