Whenever I leave the house I know there's a chance I won't make it back. Sometimes your number is up. I make sure to say goodbye to my furniture, lamps, throw rugs, dust bunnies, utensils, cold cuts, appliances, shoe rack, ceiling fan, stuffed Teddy, hand puppet, cheap linoleum, thermostat, plunger, tub and toilet, underwear, knick knacks, candles, napkins and paper towels, clothing and shoes, my hats and ties, a few ants I've come to know.
Then I open the garage and say goodbye to everything stored inside, except some really bad paintings I did when I was going through a tough time.
I go out and get milk, bread and a paper and return 30 minutes later, settled in my recliner surrounded by family. I know they'd miss me if I were struck by a flying piece of plywood on the highway.
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