22. If I were fully convinced I’m going to die, if that reality hit hard and stuck fast, I guess I’d start with some more of the same. I would imagine my faithful mom decaying in the ground because I can’t get past that thought; and I’d flail for a time in fear and contempt and self-pity and sadness. Then my head would try to look for answers in the knowing; but when that failed, my soul would find its way in the doing. I’d shave my beard, make out with my wife, hug my kids hard, and get down to living. I would stop seeking comfort. I would talk more and mean it. I would write more and feel it. I would service in secret and leave breadcrumbs for my children to find. And all the while, I would hope for something more, something next, something enduring.