Today I signed a form.

At 18 years old it is important 

To sign all your forms,

Just In Case.

My mom says it’s just a formality.

An umbrella,

Just In Case,

I happen upon a rainy day.

Apparently rainy days can only happen when you turn 18.

My eyes wrap around the swirling loops in my signature,

As if I’m watching a young child on a swing.

Back and forth.

Does she know of the decision that awaits her?

I never did.

I wouldn’t have even wanted to.

It’s a big question.

What do you want when you die?

I want to have gone on a road trip

A big one, maybe to the east coast.

All my friends would pack into one van,

And we’d lose ourselves on backroads,

To familiar music and prepackaged snacks.

And when we grew tired of the waves crashing on the beach,

And the quiet hum of cicadas late into the night,

We would begin our journey home.

High on warm salty air and each other's company.

But that wasn’t really the question, was it?

The form cares not of backroads and cicadas,

But instead of caskets and jars. 

An idea so estranged

That I have never taken the time to consider 

What I may want. 

My mom says I don’t have to know right now.

That it really is 

Just In Case.

So I check a few boxes,

And sign a swirling signature on the bottom of the page.

I’m not too interested in this form.

Or detailing the specificities

Of a funeral

That I do not plan to attend anytime soon.

But today I will start planning a road trip.