My friend, Joe, is dying. Outside the retirement village’s window, cars roll along Camino de la Placitas, their drivers oblivious to the beauty of the reflected sunshine off the car ahead or the generous wave of another motorist signaling for them to go first. I sip my Americano and nibble at the chocolate cake I brought for Joe. Now that he’s done eating, its left for me. Sweet and bitter, oily and earthy—a perfect combination. Earlier, I positioned Joe in his bed so he wouldn’t choke. I stuffed the pillow behind his head, angled his chin towards his chest, and cleared the way to his belly. All those years as a nurse have finally come in handy. I spooned the cake into my friend’s mouth. Held the coffee cup’s straw to his chapped lips. What could be better than a couple of paisans sharing coffee and cake on a Sunday afternoon? Joe mumbles gibberish. I say, “You’re making no sense.” He says, “I know. It’s like someone else is in my head.” I say, “I’m not afraid of your dying.” He says, “Thank you.” Joe was a writer and would sometimes help me with an essay’s final lines. A writer can ruin an entire piece with a crappy ending. He and I would spend hours with our butt bones sore from sitting on the white benches of Manzanita Café. We’d twist syntax and fling phrases. He’d tap his fingers on his thighs, like fleshy drumsticks on the skin of his jeans. He made sure the rhythm of those last words were right. He drank his coffee black. He listened for a melody that he alone could hear. Joe had picked a day to die. March 14. I tell him that’s the same day Edward Abbey died, an odd piece of trivia I read off the internet earlier that morning. He laughs. Good writer, he says. He tells me he wants to be surrounded by his friends, his cat, Zeno, and his dead wife, Sally’s artwork. Then he goes back to mumbling, arguing with his mother, his grandmother. I am a bystander. The traffic along the road has quieted. I say, “Joe, you might beat yourself to that punchline of March 14. It is February 23, and you, my friend, are dying.” He says, “I know.” Sometimes when I’m reading a story, I turn the page, expecting more, only to find it’s over. I’m greedy. I want something good to go on forever. Joe’s not around to help me figure out this essay’s final lines. I wait to pull out from the parking lot onto Placitas. I let several cars go by. I consider getting another cup of coffee, another piece of cake, even though it’s dark, and the caffeine and sugar will keep me up all night. I circle Taos Plaza, cruise past Mazanita café, revisit those times when Joe and I hammered out endings together. On the corner is World Cup, open and empty. What the fuck? I think. More coffee, more cake. I don’t need to sleep. That night, my dog curls her spine and poops underneath the olive trees while I stare at the stars. My tongue races across my teeth. A whisper of mocha. There.

Some thoughts on my 63rd birthday about death, dating, and Thich Nhat Hahn.

An essay about the tradition of midnight mass in Queens, Christmas Eve at the Taos Pueblo, the Coen brothers' films, and grief at the holidays.