If I died right now: April 29, 2015

2am.

There are approximately twenty Starburst wrappers in a pile next to the bed, a few on my blanket, an empty turkey jerky package, and an empty bottle of sauvignon blanc with an empty glass next to it.

My laptop history will show recent activity on Netflix (Angela’s Ashes), Twitter, Telegram (ongoing idle conversation with boyfriend), and Ask a Mortician YouTube videos. My digital photo album is open and will still be unorganized in spite of my best efforts.

The dishes are still undone, but everything is rinsed off. Not any unusual clutter to note. Medications are organized and doses accounted for.

I’m wearing my black yoga pants and a black Gap t-shirt, my usual bedtime wear, but I haven’t showered tonight. I washed my face but there are still traces of stubborn mascara. My nails have chipped polish on them.

My thoughts as I drift off to sleep are with my ex-wife, my family, who I haven’t seen for almost four years, and how deeply confident I am that my kids will be okay.

Still left undone: multiple paperwork tasks such as medical related things for me and the kids, fall high school enrollment for youngest, yard work arranged to clean up long ago storm mess in back yard, flights reserved for summer travel. Also, no appointment scheduled to check out the aneurysm stent repair and the other intact fellow. I’m overdue for that.

Tomorrow, if it comes.