In the heat of a dry late August afternoon, a man digs. He’s been digging for hours in the hard soil, giving him only a foot or so of depth for his efforts.

He sat satisfied and in silence next to the dying fire he had built after his day’s work. The pit and his chair sat atop the flat stone platform he laid during the course of summer.

People often talked about wanting to witness their own funeral. I couldn’t see the appeal, myself. Sure, everyone said grand things about me. But their pain hurt my soul.