I do not know yet when I will die, or how or why, but I was invited, a number of years ago, to spell out the details of what might contribute to the picture of a good death. What do I wish to be done with my disrobed flesh? What grievances have I harbored that beg forgiveness? What resentments ask to be released? How shall I bequeath my possessions? How would I like to be remembered or celebrated? Three years slipped by, before I, on this November eve, sat down and wrote on the subject of my good death. The process, which I undertook in three 20-minute sessions of free-writing felt like a reckoning with my mortality, a simple acknowledgement of the inevitable and a practical consideration of baggage: where, how and what I would like done with what is left–the residues of me–when I leave. Such a basic and natural thing I don’t think should be left unconsidered on the principle of youth and good health. Because I do not know when death will take me.