When the day comes that my bones grow weak,
When the day comes that my hair begins to fall,
When the day comes that my heart stops beating,

I want to rest,
with hands holding my arms, not tubes attached
to machines I’m unsure I even need.

I want to offer my death,
surrounded by the sound of rosaries traveling
through my dreams, prayers that will heal me,
not the electronic beeping of a heartbeat monitor.

I want to listen...