The Week Before the World Ends (Nonfiction)

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I’ve been dazed recently, looking out the window while washing dishes, thinking about what I would want our last week together to look like. Our last week together before one of us gets shot by a stranger while we are at the grocery store, or school —

I’ll have just finished a great book, listened to my favorite albums on the record player, and had my fill of delightful podcasts. I will have plenty of time to write. I will talk on the phone for hours on end with friends across the country. I’ll tell all of the people I love that I love them, what they mean to me, that I am lucky to have been in their orbit. I will call my brother and thank him. I’ll call my sister and thank her. I’ll drive up to my mother-in-law’s house and hug her and thank her.

Everyone we love, and everyone they love, and everyone they in turn love and on and on forever will be safe, calm, fed and comfortable. I will check in with Dad and he will be optimistic and warm—we’ll laugh at something dumb, and he’ll tell me about the last Ken Burns documentary he watched and remind me to send him photos of my daughter. He will respond to each one adoringly, in all caps.

After a few sips of positive news stories and some final correspondence, we will dispose of our phones.

Our last week together before one of us gets shot by a stranger while we are at a concert or movie —

It will be sunny each day and rain a little bit each afternoon. The flowers in our yard will all be in bloom, quenched just enough. In the evenings it will be cool, and the inky sky will be clear and dotted with stars which we will all look up at on a family walk before tucking ourselves into bed.

I will look in the mirror and feel beautiful. I will look at photos of myself and will not feel repulsed. I will have gotten plenty of sleep. I will have swum the salty ocean with a handful of strong, intelligent, and hilarious friends. I will finish knitting a hat and give it to my next door neighbor.

The Green Bay Packers will do well that Sunday, and the Milwaukee Brewers will remain first in the league game after game, so I’ll know my boy cousins and my uncles and aunts and my brother and brother-in-law and my nephews and my dad are content. All will be right in their worlds. I will tell them they matter to me as much as those teams matter to them.

Our last week together before one of us gets shot by a stranger while we are at a bowling alley or a lobby of a building —

We will eat from our bursting vegetable garden. We will cook each night together and eat dinner on the back porch. Our fridge will be filled with cheese, local eggs, and homemade mint iced tea.

All of the laundry will be done and folded. The dishwasher will be filled, emptied, filled again in a beautifully mundane rhythm. None of us will be sick or particularly sad, none of us will have a challenging time at work or school, no conflicts with friends or family. Any friction that does come up will be faced, figured out, easily smoothed.

I will do yoga each day and ride my bike to and from every destination, the wind sailing through my hair.

Our last week together before one of us gets shot by a stranger while we are at a parade or making a deposit at a bank —

My husband and I will have at least a few bedroom romps that week, remind each other that we belong to each other, work as a team and forget our old patterns and resentments, remember our bodies and hold each other close.

We will hold our dog’s furry face and tell him what a good boy he is, and let him up on the couch where he has never been allowed. We’ll take him on the longest off-leash walk, let him run in the park for as long as he wants and sniff every scent along the way.

Each morning that week we will wake up late, long after the sun shines through the cracks in our window shades. Our daughter will come in and burrow between us, all of our legs in a tangle, and we’ll ask about each others’ dreams.

Each time the news flashes a new tragedy, I remind myself to live this way. I will make sure of it, as long as I have breath in my body.

Lisa Shepherd is an ever-evolving reader, writer, mother, and gentle cynic, always searching for meaning in details both vast and intimate. She laughs easily, cries honestly, and finds her truest clarity outdoors - especially on long walks where the smallest beauties reveal themselves. You can find her writing on Substack at https://lisershep.substack.com/.