Prepare for death methodically, the way your grandmother used to prepare the lamb shank, looking at it objectively, flipping it over by the sheared bone to carefully study one side and then the next before sliding the knife in across the grain—all notions of shorn wool and suffering, and panicked gasping for a last breath simmered away into fragrant sauce. Whisper to yourself, it’s just a sweater coming apart behind you, itchy and uncomfortable— but recalled, once unraveled, as being soft and warm and wonderful.
This article appears in September 2017 Issue.
