That I'm not among the dead;
Though I'm getting more forgetful
And more mixed up in the head.
For sometimes, I can't remember,
When I stand at foot of stair,
If I must go up for something,
Or I've just come down from there.
And before the fridge so often,
My poor mind is filled with doubt,
Have I just put food away, or
Have I come to take it out?
And there are times when it is dark out,
With my night cap on my head,
I don't know if I'm retiring,
Or just getting out of bed.
So if it's my turn to write you,
There's no need in getting sore,
I may think that I have written,
And don't want to be a bore.
So, remember I do love you,
And I wish that you were here,
But now it's nearly mail time,
So I must say "Good bye, dear."
There I stood beside the mailbox,
With a face so very red.
Instead of mailing you my letter,
I had opened it instead.
