To finish anything, I have to work backwards. Asked what peace means to me, I consider folding laundry. To do the next mindful thing takes a breach of will, for me. I am set on deep relaxation, cure for years of mild anxiety. I know that I will die. I think my body will remain, a source for something else to happen. Those I love will remember me, if I have touched their lives. I hope that I’ll be able, somehow, to remember them. Peace is a kind of mindlessness, allowing us to do the next easy thing. This basket of wash snatched from the line before rain has sat on my desk long enough to catch important papers, a week’s mail. Vaguely, I recall my dream: I am helping my mom, hanging damp clothes on the line out back. I keep dropping socks and washcloths into the dirt, but it is clean enough to shake off when they’re dry. I hear a baby crying. I wonder why the other folks don’t get him, then I know that he is mine. I wake up shouting for their help—aren’t I doing what needs doing? My dogs are howling in their crate. Barefoot, I walk over the clothes by my bed. Why do I leave so much to do? I know I used to pitch myself into the next chore that appeared, and somehow it all got done, or near enough to accept delightful rest. I could feel the work pound happily in my chest. I think that death brings mindlessness, without guilt. There is delight in stepping into the next challenge, something new appearing like the rocky step ahead. When I climb a hill—can I still climb a hill? I see the crumbled rock with plants attaching to the next available earth, the erosion from the rain. I take that reach and lift and rise higher up the mountain. The air is new, the sky different. I smile, panting.