My forever from now,

There is no way to take this other than wrong, so I am just going to say it and explain.

Nearly every time I am with you, I want to die.

Don’t worry. Your mom is not a cutter and your dad is not a jumper. Quite the opposite.

Some days, usually as the sun is clocking out, we will head to the backyard. I will bring music and ice water. You will bring a rawhide. And we will laze beneath a mister as Alexa DJs the picnic.

And a song will come on. And you will be on your back, in the shade, gnawing, blissfully oblivious. And a breeze will catch, and pour over us both.

And I will think: I could Go.Right.Now. It could End.Right.Here.

However heated the heart attack, however seismic the stroke, however excruciating the embolism, it would be no match for you. Ending on the high note of you, with you, is worth a momentary grimace. After all, we all have to take the final exit ramp, honey. Pull over at a scenic overlook than a truck stop.

As you bound forth, child, ask yourself: How would I like to go? How should the final reel play?

Whatever the answer, make it your choice. Make it mid-joy.

One recent dusk, I tempted Fortuna. I was sipping, you were bully sticking. A misting breeze kissed us as the sun serenaded. I could have Gone.Right.Then.

Cat Stevens’ Tea for the Tillerman played. You know the song: It’s a one-minute tune that ends on a crescendo of piano and gospel voices.

I closed my eyes and called Fate out. ‘Make it as painful as you want,’ I offered. ‘I can Go.Right.Now.’

The keys struck. The voices lifted.

I opened my eyes to you. There you were, panting and grinning and drooling and asking what’s next.

And at once I realized: YOU are not ready for me to go. YOU want me to hear you as you have your say, see you as you make your mark.

So I will witness all of you, baby.

It’s enough to make a heart beat Just.Like.This.