On the night of my death, when they turned off the ventilator and feeding tube, I dreamed that I entered a graveyard clutching a garden shovel. When I reached an empty spot next to where my parents and grandparents were laid to rest, I dug like Cool Hand Luke in the shadow of a prison guard directing a shotgun at him.

After digging several feet into the forgotten earth, I lay down inside. I looked up to the star-swallowed night; birds were starting to sound as the sun arose. Then I felt something on my forehead and in my mouth. More descended from several shovels above. Who was holding them, I could not see. I tried to yell at them to stop, but when I spoke, no words came out. The dirt piled on me and I was paralyzed from moving it off. Eventually, my body was covered like a kid buried in sand and piles of dirt covered my face.

I woke up to the shrill sound of beeps and nurses rushing in. So, there were the shovelers! One whispered to the other, “He’s leaving us.” I opened my mouth to say, “Not if you stop shoveling the dirt!” Nothing sounded from my mouth but a faint whistle.