The Good Death

The Good Death

The Good Death

When I'm dying, I want it to be slow.
Not slow like a hot Sunday service in an old church,
Nor any Tuesday at a job that sucked my soul;
But slow like watching sunsets rocking on back porches,
And fishing off the end of a lake house pier. 
I want slow like that.

When I'm dying, I want it to be full.
Not full like a schedule with no time for lunch,
Nor full of regrets, what ifs and maybes.
But full like my heart, as my newborn napped on my chest, 
And when he and I exchanged vows in that old hotel bar.
I want full like that.

When I'm dying, I want it to be loud.
Not loud like hospital machines and overhead pages,
Nor blaring news reports or social dissonance. 
But out loud like wearing all my favorite jewelry at once,
And hosting a living wake in my own honor. 
I want loud like that.

When I'm dying, I want it to be luxurious.
Not the luxury of designer sheets,
Nor perfumed body washes.
But the luxury of hearing Rumi fall from your lips,
And the feel of home made lotions on my skin.
I want luxury like that.

When I'm dying, give me a deathbed with a view.
Not in a stark white room overlooking a parking lot,
Nor in a dark back bedroom away from the kitchen.
But a view of all the faces I love so much,
And in the front room overlooking wildlife visitors in the yard.
I want a view like that.

When I'm dying, give me a deathbed of chances.
Not the slim chances of medical intervention,
Nor those chance encounters requiring luck and fate.
But chances to say I love you, I'm sorry, and thank you,
And chances to do more healing before I go.
I want chances like that.

When I'm dying, give me a deathbed of grace.
Not social graces lacking in authenticity,
Nor that grace of stiff elegant protocols.
But the grace of candle lit essential oil bed baths,
And soulmates lovingly walking me home.
I want grace like that.

When I'm dying, give me a deathbed of romance.
Not the romance of pretentious roses,
Nor casual carnations.
But the mystical romance of crystals around my bed, 
And the magical scent of incense hanging in the air.
I want romance like that.
. 
When I'm dying, I want to die like I lived. 
Not to live like death has already claimed me,
Nor to live just to exist.
But to die feasting on the marrow of life
And as the Captain of my Soul.
I want a good death like that.

© J. Klemos 2022

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