The Screenplay of Daniel Burton’s (My Husband’s) Death

No, I have never been married. So no, this is not really my husband.  

The opening scene consisted of you and me
Sitting patiently in cold plastic seats, in line for a ticket
To see Doctor Hudson and consult about the wording for death.
Should it be “terminally ill” or “pushing up daisies” or simply “deceased?”
They all mean the same thing.
Our life together was a movie, and we know that
All movies must end.
But in the meantime, we pretended to be interested
 In what was playing on the screen.
Our camera zoomed in for a close-up on the
Tiny cottage in an area wooded with pines,
And the garden where we grew turnips and daffodils,
All lined up in neat little rows.
We sipped sweet tea from frosted mugs on the porch swing
As the stars popped out and blanketed the navy sky.
The cicadas of summer were our soundtrack.  
We were award-winning actors and actresses,
Imagining we didn’t know what was coming in the script,
That I would have to say the line, “Goodbye, darling”
And shovel dirt moist with rain and tears
 On top of your casket that is now quickly fading
To black in my memory.
There were bloopers while filming.
I drove your new Buick into the lake, and you
Scraped my favorite casserole dish with a paring knife.
They seem unimportant now.
The climax came and you lay in a sheer white hospital bed,
Your deep brown eyes begging me to hit pause on our movie,
Or better yet, rewind. But the show must go on.
The screen went as black and as dull as your heart monitor,
And the credits starting rolling out a list of names
That must be invited to the funeral
Of my co-star and co-director,
Daniel Burton.