With a Quiet Hand

I hope death comes like a quiet hand lifting me from the backseat, half-asleep, carrying me to my bed, where, tucked beneath familiar blankets and with eyes closed, the gentle voices of those I love pass through a cracked door, holding me a moment longer in their warmth as I slip into rest.

That is still the gentlest image I know for leaving this world. Not terror. Not noise. Not some grand and blinding revelation. Just the old mercy of being too tired to walk on your own and trusting that someone strong and familiar will carry you the rest of the way.

My memories of safety began in the backseat of a car at night. The tires humming. A light waiting at the end of the drive. Low voices drifting from the front seat while I hovered at the edge of sleep. Sometimes waking just enough to know we were home, then feeling someone lifting me before I ever had to stand and drifting deeper into sleep.

One arm under my knees, one hand at my back, my head against a shoulder.

No understanding the house in the dark. Only trusting the arms carrying me through it.

I hope it comes that way. I hope I am tucked beneath something familiar. I hope the voices of those I love reach me through a cracked door for one moment longer. I hope the end feels less like being taken than being brought home.

If I am granted that kind of mercy, it will be enough.