Twice a year, the town we used to live in had this dinner to raise scholarships for local graduates. A handwritten sign would show up, “$12, Steak Dinner.” It was more than then that though. There was also a baked potato, corn, a small pad of butter (that somehow tasted better than regular butter) and a roll. The plate was like you were at a friend’s house, and the little basement would be just filled with neighbors.
My son was two, with soft red hair, and overalls. We were together with his father and his uncle. He was excited when we walked in, getting served up by smiling people. A high chair was available at a long table, and his father helped him sit and start eating a fluffy roll.
Us three adults were talking over the sounds of laughter and silverware when we heard a cry.
“Help me Daddy!”
Our little guy had his arms stretched out and both eyes were closed. Falling asleep and falling over at the same time. His father scooped him up and held him.
That is how I imagine dying.
Life Without Montages 