If the World Were to End Tomorrow,

(as billboards up and down the freeway and middle aged men handing out fliers at community events proclaim,)

I'd take my coffee outside, sit on the hammock, and watch the bees come and go while I sipped.

I'd comb through the strawberry bushes for bursts of red, and seek green pea pods among the twisting, sagging vines.

I'd look up in the trees for blushing cherries, bend a branch down to pluck one, and wish for more.

I'd make breakfast, clean a few dishes (but not all of them), and hang a load of laundry on the line.

I'd make a half hearted attempt to do some homeschooling with the kids, but settle for quiet reading time, taking my own book out to the hammock, disappearing into words for an hour or two.

I'd take a deep whiff of boiling malted grain wafting from the garage, and be glad my husband has so much vacation time.

I'd visit with neighbors, make a baby laugh and then cry (not on purpose, of course), and set up my childhood tee-pee for a little friend.

I'd rinse and boil the pinto beans which had been soaking on the kitchen windowsill overnight, filter some limoncello, and water the potatoes which are just starting to break the brown surface with a deep green that is almost black.

I'd feed my family dinner, sing along with the Beattles, and get ready for a baseball game.

I'd look forward to a few chapters of Jules Verne at bedtime, a full night's sleep, and coffee on the hammock tomorrow morning.

I wouldn't count on rapture, I wouldn't fear hell, and I wouldn't change a thing about today, tomorrow, or yesterday.