I want you to close your eyes and imagine something for a second.
I want you to wander down the twisted path of your life, until you arrive at your exit.
And I want you to stand inside the gate.
Not quite in, not quite out.
Your final moments.

The autumn has finally blown over into winter, a chill coming down your spine.
Everything around you is fading, and each passing moment feels like an eternity.
The fabric of life is slipping through your fingers, and you can’t hold on. You aren’t strong enough.
So you just want to let go.

Let’s say you are lying in a hospital bed, a trail of wires dangling from your wrist, disinfectants stinging your nose.
Let’s say you know why you are here, and you know what is coming, and you’re scared.
Let’s say that you are exiting the trail, and knocking on death’s door.
I want you to imagine the people around you, saying goodbye.
I want you to imagine your farewell thoughts.

Will you be thinking about that dream school you never got into?
Will you be thinking about your sub count on youtube?
Will you be thinking about your ****** job that just managed to pay the rent?
Will you be thinking about that year when you felt like you were all alone, and nobody cared?
Will you be thinking about all those dreams you never chased?
No.
You won’t.

You’ll remember the way your kid smiles when she’s happy, lighting up a room.
You’ll remember dancing in the kitchen like an idiot with the one you love.
You’ll remember the student who was failing until you touched their life.
You’ll remember playing in the backyard with your sister.
You’ll remember arguing over Marvel movies with your brother.
You’ll remember the crazy adventures you had with your best friends.
You’ll remember hugs from your grandparents.
You’ll remember the sound of the ocean, filling you up with joy.
You’ll remember your dad, patiently teaching you how to cook even though you aren’t any good.
You’ll remember your mom, attempting to show you how to pitch a ball.
You’ll remember the sun on your back and the wind at your feet, beckoning you forward.
You’ll remember that person who always knew how to make you smile.
You’ll remember the homeless man who laughed in joy when you provided him with a meal.
You’ll remember the confident smile of the kid with stage fright as he flawlessly recited his lines.
You’ll remember the way the trees sang their summer song in the forest, saying their final goodbyes.
You’ll remember your grandchildren’s eyes, which seem all too familiar.

And because of this, they’ll remember you.