THE LAST DAY WITH A MARIACHI BAND
by Tim Suermondt
We can hope it will end like that
bougainvillea everywhere, senoritas
walking with us in the city square,
a narrow road up a steep but serene
mountain, a boy saying "Buenos Dias,"
oranges on the trees being swayed
like babies by the breeze of the gulf,
black tankers disappearing among
the palm trees and a whole fleet of stars.
BLACK AND WHITE by Myles Boisen
THE LAST DAY
by Holly Day
we go about our day
whisper about angels
leave homes full of the past behind us
as the sun rises, one last time
we pray that the signs are real and
the whispers grow louder
climb the hills, set up camp, make plans
the occasional ecstatic shout. people leave their doors unlocked
fields unturned, the animals
ask if it's true.
ON THE BOARDWALK by Brenda Yamen
THE END OF HISTORY
by Jacqueline Doyle
Clocks will stop. Calendars will disappear. We'll no longer mark the passing of minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, seasons, or years. Sometimes we might say, "This day reminds me of spring. Remember spring, when the sun shone and flowering trees bloomed and pollen dusted the streets?" Some of us will answer, "Yes, I remember." Others, too young to have experienced birthdays, will look puzzled. While they may look young, or middle-aged, or old, they will not know their ages. People will still age, of course, but without history to mark the passing of time. "Live in the now," the sages once counseled, and we will indeed be living in the perpetual now. Once it was believed that life was richer lived in the present moment, with no thought of the past or future. But something will be missing in this story with no beginning or end, only middles. There will still be endings, people will die, but they will disappear into the uncounted yesterdays, their names and faces lost. I will be gone too, in some unimaginable tomorrow that will slip away before anyone else notices, before even I have taken note of the event.