I keep thinking about dying. Not right now, mind you. Just in a general kind of way. And I’m not being morbid either; I’m in no rush. It’s just that at my age, it’s hard not to think about end-of-life matters. It’s certainly not about any funeral or memorial plans. Even less am I concerned with the disposal of my body. In fact, cremation is my choice, and what they do with the remains matters little to me.
Rather, it has something to do with a kind of obligation I feel as I approach the end. Nobody has told me that I must do anything in particular — nobody, that is, except me. But for some reason, I worry about tidying things up and finishing them off. And for the most part that means my writing.
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