The Consolation The consolation that one day I will lay myself down and die. That's what happened to my dad's friend Lester. One day, in his ninetieth year, he complained of a headache and lay down for a nap. That was the end for Lester. He had a smooth, painless transition, like pressing the off button. No mess. It was clean. And lucky. The disconcerting feeling that I might, if unlucky, lie in a bed for months, while pain drains my muscles away. Still, this end would transport me away, into the void of an opioid haze. What about the fate of crashing to the floor with a catastrophic cardiovascular event, and living? My grandfather's mind wandered with the songs of the birds nesting in the fruit trees he had planted himself and tended. How had it felt when he returned? Those times when you could see in his eyes, he was in there and knew what life had brought him to.