Final Gift Final Gift I’ve earned the right to isolate, to gravitate towards solitude, to keep my circle tight and glued. The social country of my youth is now an island built for two. I cannot help but see the day, when “we” are just “you” and “me” again, one of us, finally, “late.” What a lovely way to misstate death, as if at any moment the dear departed will show, slightly out of breath, apologetic. “Sorry ... traffic.” I hope you go first, to be honest. (Not that I hope it happens soon – I dread it, actually.) It’s just that I will make the better widower. I will grieve you sharply, but this I already know, the longing I feel after you are gone will not surprise me. But if I am first to go, you have no idea how much you will be at sea, because you don’t realize now how much you love me. And I would rather you never find out than discover it that way.