Dear World, how I will miss you

A poem

and hope somewhere I will secure a ringside seat 
to all that happens once I've returned 
to dust. I'll be up in the bleachers with Eve, 
Socrates, Mary and Paul, Hafiz, Theresa, Rumi, 
Dosteovsky, and John O'Donohue, planning 
the seating chart for my next dinner party.
Eve will bring an apple for each of us 
to get the conversation started. I will invite
my two brothers to join us so they can meet
the peeps that made me the tilted one. 
The ones who tangled me in their heavens.
I'll save seats for my daughters 
though hope they arrive long after dessert. 
Like every expat, I'll await their gifts 
from home—whatever sunsets and thunders, 
spring greens and starlit skies, or radiant 
dawns they can smuggle past security.