On Sunday morning, my dear son Matt and I had just finished breakfast.

We were talking about his extraordinary accomplishments during the fall semester at Cal State Northridge – three A’s and one A-minus, earned by the most dedicated young man I ever have known.

Walking outside, I wanted to show off the world-class cleanliness of car.

It felt as if my car was throwing out its chest in a surge of rare pride.

First time my car had been in this faultless state since one minute after rolling off the assembly line.

Matt’s all-seeing eyes espied a raggedy informal notepad in a corner. The scratch pad and I were about the same age.

“Want me to throw it away, Dad?” Matt asked.

No, I will take it to the office.

Once inside, I tore and crumpled the top page containing two meaningless telephone numbers.

Turning the page, I gulped. My heart jammed on its brakes.

Diane wrote this tragic farewell three years ago to the day.

Months before, a doctor examined her body ravaged by a heroic war with ALS, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. She gave Diane 12 to16 months.

While Diane was one of the most sociable persons I have known, she stored precious thoughts internally.

She did not have to squint to see The End.

Achingly, this is what her heart told her to say:

Everyday Is Goodbye

The hills are thick and green,

As if they would reach out and hold me

A blanket to enfold me, to protect me 

Green is the color of life.

When I die, bury me with something green

So that when my soul rises, it is covered in green.