We speak of what we wantin our next life, the lacks in this one.More adventurous, one says. More kind.I say, I wish I’d spoken up more.We draw line chartsof our fulfillment over time.Then she says close your eyes,picture your own death.We shuffle our folding chairs,uncross our legs, depart.I’m in a hospital bed,body worn thin as an old flannel.Faces gathered by the bed,loved ones fogging the airwith their sorry breath, their needto be of use. I can’t standthe way they hold my hands.There’s a dry handwith too-long nailsthat skritch on my skin like lizards.Will my last thoughtbe of lizards?I try to lean backinto the void, but—skritch—pulls me back like a tether.I’m trapped.Can I rasp out with a dying breaththat they should let my hands go?How awkward. I couldn’t.Skritch. The hours tick by.I can’t go. I can’t askthem to stop. I can’t…The facilitator calls us together.We share: Traffic accidents,cancer, young, old, sudden,angry, bitter, loving, peaceful.I speak about the hands,how I hated the feelingbut it brought them comfortso I said nothing. The facilitator nods,praises my compassion. Have you consideredbecoming a chaplain?I want her to say, It’s your death,you could have askedfor what you wanted.