When I die, I hope I am happy. I want as many of my organs as possible given to as many people as possible—all around the world—all ages—everyone. I want my body cremated. I want my ashes kept in a pretty satin box or jar with a bluebird on it or cherry blossoms. Then I want everyone who ever loved me or liked me to meet together on a nice, sunny warm day in someone's beautiful backyard with lots of chairs, children, picnic tables, dogs, cats, squirrels, birds, butterflies, food, trees, and flowers around. Everyone should sit together, eat and sip wine . . . laugh and cry . . . and just be happy that they are alive here and now. And then maybe they can listen to this song: "Hummingbird" by Tracy Spuehler. And then sprinkle a little of me around. And just smile, thinking that maybe I'm happier being a part of the air and the ground and the sky. After everyone is full of food, I want them to go home and continue living—but in a fuller way than before—a deeper, more appreciative way. And when my husband is ready, he will drive out to the North Cascades, with all his camping gear and cute glasses on, and he will find a beautiful spot (one he knows I would have liked—near a river and lots of trees and moss and ivy), and he will sprinkle me everywhere until I cannot be pinpointed and am not in one place or one person anymore. And he can smile and know that just like in the movie, Toto the Hero . . . I'll be laughing and flying . . . watching the world and experiencing it in ways I had never been able to before. Always with him. Everywhere. At once.