I hope dying feels like waterskiing.

That’s probably too much to hope for, I know.

But all the same, I hope that one day, it will be clear that it’s time for one last ski around the lake, and I will jump into the water with anticipation.

I hope that just before the boat starts, there is a bit of apprehension, a bit of excitement. ‘Do I still have this in me? Will I be able to stand up? Are my legs strong enough for this?’

But like it always has, my body does hold me, and I am again, at last, one last time on my feet above the water. Maybe I am old, and my small wiry arms are strong, my skin is papery with age. But these arms can knead bread and haul potting soil — they are surprising in their strength, and I know they’ll hold the rope securely while I get my bearings.

We go counterclockwise around the lake, starting near our big brown lake house on the hill, tooting the horn to let the family know “we’re doing one more loop!” They watch from their perches on the deck and are pleased that at least I’ve stopped trying to wave the American flag behind me while I ski. Not as crazy as that lady on the next lake over who waterskied on her 90th birthday in a mink coat, I think.

The boat picks up speed and I’m gliding along happily, sure of my footing now. I look down and there is only clear water, a view straight to the bottom through a green-blue prism. I see each smooth river rock and tumbled boulder as a bit of work I took on in my lifetime. School projects turned in and contests entered and piano pieces memorized. College papers written, travels made, journals completed. Races run and competitions won. and lost. Dreams and ideas that were brief realities. And a few that made bigger ripples. These are the little marks I’m leaving in the world, and I watch them with equanimity, flying beneath my feet. They were each once the Most Important Thing, and now they can each be set down to join the other pebbles and rocks at the bottom, to be worn down by the sand until they’re a new idea to chase, for someone else.

The reeds and the seaweed crop up here and there, emerging out of the water, waving me through. These are the living things I’ve grown and brought into the world. Seasons of tomatoes grown with neighbors and then put up with my sister-in-law in a steaming kitchen. Traditions I dreamed up and fanned and kept alive. Friendships I nurtured. And of course, babies I grew inside and outside my body, a family I helped shape and was shaped by, a community of growing things. I acknowledge them, knowing they continue to live and grow when I’m done with this loop.

I curve around the bridge, slipping neatly outside of the wake, over to the smoothest glass. Then back across and over to the other side, feeling the breeze start to speak before I can hear it. But then I hear it.

You’ve loved. And you’ve been loved, so completely.
You’ve lived fully.
You’ve taught, and you’ve learned, so much.
You knew you were here for a reason.
And you’ve done what you were put here to do.

Behind my right shoulder, the golden good light of early evening settles on the houses and trees. I look back once more, say thank you to the rocks and the reeds and the wind, and then turn my head forward.

Because just up here, on the left, is the house again. It is time. When you let go, the skis stay on the surface just a moment, suspended, before they break the surface and sink down, giving way to the cool water that begins its work. Enveloping feet and then ankles and then knees and then waist, and then. And then all at once, you submerge and it is quiet and cool and perfect.

We slow down just a bit, or maybe time just slows down for me.

And I see home.

And I let go of the rope.