When I die I want the wind blowing into my face and around my head, and through whatever hair may still be growing there. Don’t package me up into a warm bed, in a warm room, to patiently await my expiration date. I want to be in the wilds, smelling the fresh pine, and not my own urine—if I am still able to smell anything at all. I want to feel that fresh breeze, blowing into my face; not pure oxygen from a tube thrust up my nose. Let me gaze out towards the horizon, and not up at the ceiling; out at the sky—streaked with golds and purple—and not up at an old brown water stain from a leak hidden someplace above the tiles. If I must go I want to go under the trees, and not in my bed, soiling my sheets. If you see me gasping and clutching at my chest, but I’m near a pond, on a mountain, or on a beach, leave me be. I’m dying my best death. Don’t ruin it for me with a call to the ambulance, or a trip to a hospital. When it is time to lay me down, into the earth, do not burn me. The time for fire is over; if I am to burn, let me burn while still alive: burning with love and burning with hope. Ignite me now with desire for all that is good, and all that is noble. Dress me in a simple gown, and place me in a plain pine box; and drop me into the earth to await my lord and king. And I don’t want to wear a suit, or a tie; those are fine, for other people’s funerals, but not for my own, thank you. I don’t need fanfare, I don’t expect a visit from dignitaries. Just close my eyelids, and set a little cross upon my breast. When I die, just say a little prayer and let me go.