Don’t Forget to Water The Plants and Thoughts on Dying.

I saw one of those posts that exists purely to be commented on. You know the ones, designed to farm engagement with zero effort? It asked what your last words on earth would be, if you could choose.

I kept scrolling. Obviously.

But it lodged itself in the back of my mind and refused to leave. Suddenly, it felt weirdly important I have an answer. Like if I could just grasp the right final sentence, everything else might snap into focus. Purpose. Meaning. Direction. A tidy conclusion to my existence. In short, I had a minor existential crisis.

So I tried on a few options. First, you have to imagine dying, which immediately raises logistical questions. Am I sick? Is there a bomb? A dramatic fall?

I chose something neutral and low-pressure. Sick felt manageable. I have a hard enough time being heard in the grocery store. I’m constantly being called “soft-spoken.” Sometimes I have to nearly yell to be understood, and I don’t want my final words to be shouted across a room.

So: sick. Quiet. Contained.

Then I tested different lines. Rolled them around mentally. Like tuning a radio just slightly off, adjusting the dial and hoping something clear comes through instead of static.

My first instinct was a question. How did I do? Did I pass? If this were a final exam, where are we landing—A, B, C? Grading on a curve I hope.

But questions are terrible last words. There’s no time for an answer. You just die having asked something awkward.

Then I considered “It’s finished.” Strong. Concise. But Jesus already took that one, and frankly, that’s a tough act to follow.

I thought about going sentimental. Telling my family I love them.

But they already know that. If that needs clarification, something really went wrong it’s too late to fix.

So I kept circling. Crossing things out. Lowering the bar. Eventually, I landed on something that felt good.

Don’t forget to water the plants.

Not because it’s poetic. Because it’s practical.

Plants clean the air. Provide oxygen. They make food. Medicine. Shade. They keep the house alive. And without me around, my family is absolutely going to kill them.

In the end, if all I can offer is a reminder that life goes on and small sustaining acts matter more than words, that feels sufficient.