Permanent Record

Dying seemed easy
one last breath then release
taking the hand of one who is sent
to guide me through the final steps
to where St. Peter sits atop a podium
waiting with others listening for his call,

I hear my name, he opens his book
to look at my permanent record,
the one the nun’s warned me about,
all previous actions determining my eternity.
I feel a panic, can I plead to go back and do more?
Release me let me return to earth, let me soar

back to physical world where I used to live,
let me tell my loved ones I love them
and ask forgiveness for all my sins,
let me gather them around,
kiss their faces, wipe their tears

let me walk on solid ground.

Let me smell the flowers,
taste my favorite meals, hold hands with my husband
talk into the night, while listening to our favorite songs 
recalling all the good times and those that made us sad
watching the logs burn in the flame,
saying our prayers, calling out His name.

St. Peter does not offer that option
I must wait with all the rest,
some squirming at what the record book holds,
others sitting in quite expectation, knowing
they will be blessed and welcomed into
heaven’s fold, while I wrack my brain
borderline greatness, with mistakes along the way
did I not love enough? Did I stop too soon?

What will St. Peter say?