There is a field filled with small summer flowers. They feel soft beneath my bare feet. At first it’s all I notice. Color being crushed beneath my toes. Resilient little flowers. Not left bent and broken but springing back to life in my wake.
Then sound. A rushing. Like a waterfall. A large, fast river of flowing water. Thunderous and dangerous. In a rush all around me. It’s my blood. I can hear it noisy in my ears. The sound of my heart pushing my life hard into my veins.
Then earth. My back covers the ground. I can feel my warmth bleed into its soil. I’m sorry. My voice whispers to the flowers that will die underneath my weight.
Then just sky. Small wispy clouds like cotton candy flying away slowly in a soft breeze. You’re welcome. My voice whispering to the vultures that circle in anticipation.
And with that my breath stops and I die grateful for giving me 90 years.