If you are more close to the dying than you would like to be, then it is time for the sky to grow larger than the earth, than the sea even. You need to go to that place where your story is seriously quiet. Nothing in it counts compared to the things the sky calls out to: birds, clouds, the occasional cypress that has reached beyond itself. You could call it a kind of waiting and that would be fair. There is a green bench — a corner of heaven, you could say — and there you can sit in the shade and watch the grandfather and grandson walk by, hand in hand. The little one makes the older one laugh again and again, and that is the way it works in heaven. Also known as going home. Also known as getting over yourself.