On a Spring Evening

On a spring evening I passed away quietly while napping on the couch.
Or perhaps it was a winters night in a burst of glowing agony,
Snatched from my sleep in a twisting paroxysm of pain.
Maybe it was a fall afternoon with the scent of burning leaves
and simmering garlic in my nostrils.
Perhaps a summer morning I arose, filled with purpose,
And surprised, when rolling out of bed, that a long groan and stretch
Led to my legs giving out and a slow-motion collapse on the floor -
And the last thing my eyes perceive is carpet (up close and personal)
And my last thought really is, "I should have vacuumed more often."

Does it matter that I can't recall? That there is no longer a me to recall?
Does it matter that my death was easy or hard?
After all, death in all it's myriad incarnations is our life's ultimate partner.
And it will take us into oblivion when it chooses and how it chooses.
Choice is death's option, not ours.

But just so you know
If I died in a nuclear blast
Death has a sense of irony.

Too bad I was too dead to appreciate it. Oh well.