No rule says you have to employ grace while dying. Who puts onion in egg salad for godsakes? mama says. Have these people not heard of sweet relish? Don’t bring the white rag! That’s for faces! Bring the tan hand towel. And use warm water for godsakes! I could snap her in half without much effort. There’s too much milk in this glass! Pour some of it out. It’s hot in here. What is the temperature? Please draw the blinds in the other room. How many diapers do I have left? And Maricela, she’s from Mexico. I can’t understand a word she says. Why is this peanut butter sandwich so sticky? The pillow could end it in a plosive minute. I love you, mama, I say. I’ll see you tomorrow.

It approaches, not by plane or train or gun or blade, but by moving down the hall where they have twenty-four-seven care. To a closet, mama says. I’ve always had plenty of closet space wherever I’ve lived and now I’m going to die in one. We lie in mama’s bed crying. The house, gone. Plants, gone. Lexus, gone. Small apartment, gone. Death closet full of Morphine, Codeine, Tramadol, Dilaudid, Xanax. Can’t even open a tube of Chapstick, mama says. But your hair looks really good today, I say.