Cocktail Hour, Dark Time

Before the small plates even arrive,
one of us asks for recommendations
on who to consult for drawing up  
her will. Another confides: a daughter
urged her to put a Go Bag together. 
What would she put in it? Keys, papers,
meds; snacks, water, change of clothing,
warm jacket, flashlight... But where
would we go? How could we possibly 
rehearse for something we're unsure 
about? The weatherman predicts rain, 
some wind tomorrow. Or it could turn 
into a storm, a blizzard with zero
visibility. I remember the letters
I used to get in the mail from my
mother: thin sheets, blue envelope, 
a little plane aloft in one corner. 
Packed particles of handwriting 
drifting from one line to the next.
They're in my house somewhere.  
How do you leave such things behind? 
When we clink glasses, our sleep-
deprived nights run down our throats.
One of us says, when it's impossible
to go back to bed she gets up and looks 
for something, anything, to do. Fold 
socks, make tea in the kitchen, start 
laundry. Many conditions can exist 
at the same time: terror and wonder, 
heartbreak and hope. Have we always
lived in the flimsy spaces between?