We can ride horses out west, along the gleaming shore, name one of them Django. He can be yours, and you’ll take care of him, sleep nearby. To keep him safe, you’ll tell me, To make sure nothing happens to him, but really we know it’ll be the other way around, and that’ll be okay. You can pet his long pretty nose, and I’ll play my guitar and sing lullabies until we disappear into the humid summer and no one will expect anything. You’ll still have that beautiful voice and we’ll harmonize to our favorite songs. We can even climb the mountains, all of them, picnic at every peak like that first year. There’ll be no lunch hour, no medication. We’ll have feasts every night, eat beans and potatoes and bacon right out of the pan, and we’ll accidentally burn our tongues but it’ll all be okay. And we’ll never get sluggish or full, never let time get to us, never get old. Never be angry, harbor no resentment or hatred for anyone or anything, free as the ravens from the old backyard. Everything will be wonderful, I’m so sure of it. And when we feel like it, we can cry at the moon with the coyotes. Not from sadness, no—we’ll have no reason to be sad. From the sheer overwhelming beauty, from the immensity of the world releasing its steam. Nothing on your shoulders but a wool blanket as we smell only good things and the bonfire crackles. But really, you should rest now. Everything will be taken care of, there will be no problems, I promise. We’ll see each other in the morning, okay? You’ll be better and then we’ll go right away and there’ll be Django, waiting, excited for our new life together. And your parents will visit and smile all the time and John and Fiona and Charlotte will come by for dinner and we’ll have excellent wine and laugh and laugh until the very end. I wish you could hear me. But you understand, don’t you? I hope you’ll understand.