I've been responsible my whole life, and this will be no exception.

While I was growing up, I did and didn't do a lot of things because I believed in god, and in an afterlife where I'd get what I thought I deserved based on the decisions I made here. Over time, that belief evolved into a "do I want to live in a world where most other people would make my choices?" as a check for my own behavior. I realized I am just one of so many. Inconsequential on my own to be sure, but maybe a single vote that elects the candidate I hoped for, or water drop in a glass that quenches someone else's thirst.

I got married, and when the relationship was partly a government ruse, it made me want something real alongside it and so I adopted a cat. And for the decade+ the cat was with me, I didn't need to find reasons to go on. He was my reason.

I looked for ways to pass the time of his life though. I found humans along the way, loved some even, but lost them. I was sad. Each time, I remembered I was lonely, and I was broken, and I didn't want to go on. But any misery had to be endured, because I had responsibilities. I had one responsibility: to give the innocent creature I took from the shelter a good life.

I was committed to that and not much more. When people had come into my life, I'd let them go, or pushed them away, or held on too tight so they did the leaving. And I thought then, this isolation is better anyway. I don't want to hurt anyone with any actions I might take, and I can't take on any additional responsibilities. I don't know where I'll be tomorrow, so I won't promise anything different.

Because that's always felt like the right thing to do. To live a life where I won't be missed much. To tread lightly, leaving little trace.

And so these days I'm in incognito windows and in non-google search engines asking what happens to owned property without next of kin, looking for estate lawyers, learning what euphemisms I can use. Oh, just looking up information for a relative in a bad spot. Cancer, I think. But terminal. What should she do?

I passed the time of his life and did my best to reduce my own suffering along the way. My apartment is really nice, I think; I wish you'd visit and feel comfortable here, that you'd be impressed by the home I put together. Do you know how many Amazon reviews I read before I chose this utensil set? Also, what happens when someone wills a fully furnished condominium unit to a charity when the mortgage is paid off?

I'll figure it out, I think. A checklist of tasks completed so every loose end is tied up. And then, I will have a count of the days I loved my connection to this world (13 years, 7 months, and 4 days), and a count of the days I held on to put things in order after that love turned to grief.

So far, it's 60. And there's no rush. Except, some nights I do feel impatient. I've been waiting a long time, and I would like this pain to end.