As I sit here and watch the unforgiving grains of sand trickle down from my hourglass, there is nothing left to do but ponder.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I always figured I’d be at peace when my time comes, but here I find myself restless and worried. Why couldn't I have just been hit by a bus? Something quick and painless. Those are the lucky ones. The ones who aren't trapped with this burden of frantically trying to make sense of it all at the end.

I’m sure the thought of what final words they will mutter crosses most people’s minds when they find themselves in my situation. Maybe I’ve grown cynical, but I’ve lived enough to know that what we say is not always how we feel. As my clock creeps to midnight with my family by my side, will I be honest? Will I tell them how I truly feel? How afraid I am? Or will I try to ensure that their last memory of me is a good one?

I wonder what I’ll be thinking about when that last grain of sand falls.

Is it better if it's a mundane thought? In another life, maybe I’m thinking about what errands to run or what groceries to get when that bus hits me. Boring, yes, but at least it's not a sad thought or an awful thought. I try to rationalize it this way at least, but if I’m being honest I’m too selfish to want it to be a mundane thought. Let it be something grand.

Growing up hunting with my dad, I learned a lot about life and death. He used to say that it's the knowledge and fear of death that sets us apart as humans. When you shoot a deer, you’d be surprised by how calm they are before they pass on. Sure, depending on how good of a shot you are, sometimes they violently flail. Almost as if their soul is desperately trying to escape their body before the gateway to the other side closes. It is the ugliest, most haunting sight imaginable. Yet somehow, a strange, almost serene sense of beauty lingers in their calmness.

I wasn’t always the best shot and for that I am remorseful.

Tick. Tick.

I remember what it was like as a young child shooting one of my first deer. It was a cold autumn day, and we had already been in the treestand for hours. My dad used to wake me up well before the crack of dawn whenever we went hunting. By this point in the day, I would drift in and out of consciousness, catching up on the sleep I had lost. Somehow, he was always wide awake—a mystery to me, given how much rest he deserved.

This was a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders: long, grueling days of manual labor and the demands of supporting a family. Yet something about those woods allowed his restless mind and weary body to find peace—a rare opportunity to clear the fog and think. It was in these quiet moments, perched high in the trees, that we shared some of our deepest conversations about life, the universe, and our place within it—whispering, of course, so the deer couldn’t hear us.

A gentle tap on my shoulder woke me from a light, dreamless nap. My dad pointed to a decent buck just behind us, and I instantly knew that this was the moment you do it all for. All the waiting, the preparing, and the early mornings that began in darkness. Slowly, I rose and turned toward the deer. My arms trembled, and my breath grew shallow and quick with a mixture of nerves and excitement that coursed through me.

The long, cold barrel of the 12-gauge carefully stretched out as I centered my aim on its upper midsection. With a slow pull of the trigger, one ounce of death screamed from the barrel with a powerful crack that could be heard a mile away. The gun kicked back just as hard and bruised my shoulder. In an instant, death made contact, and the entire symphony of the forest drew to a close.

There we watched the majestic beast flail in eerie silence. Only the rustling of leaves and snapping of branches could be heard. Perhaps he was overwhelmed by strange new thoughts and feelings, or perhaps his mind had found peace even as his body struggled to catch up.

Eventually, the flailing ceased, and a heavy stillness took over. I looked to my dad, and together we offered a quiet prayer for the animal, asking for a safe passage to the other side. We thanked it for the sustenance it would provide, a solemn exchange of life and death. At first gradually, and then all at once, the forest hummed its song again.

Tick.