I hope that I die eating breakfast with you on a quiet Tuesday morning just before I head into work. I hope my contact lens jabs into my eye painfully so I hiss a little and reach up to massage it back into place in between spoonfuls of cereal and then I’m gone, floating far away, into a place none of us will ever hope to reunite in.

I hope you know before it happens, that I’ll reach up and probe my eyelid and crash to the table dead without your intervention. I hope you catch my head in both your hands like you’re offering me to Heaven and then set me down, featherlight, one cooling hand pillowing my cheek while my errant soul goes to a farm upstate. I hope the milk in my bowl wobbles sinusoidal with the anti-impact and settles once again.

I hope you know euthanasia is agape when you’re around.