When I die, my sisters will collect the few thousand dollars of my life insurance policy, gifted to me through my job. They will take the consolation prize of maybe two months’ rent and grieve the funniest girl they’ve ever known who loves them more than anyone else.

When I die, my friends will take their spare keys to my apartment and let themselves in. They’ll grab their favorite books and records I’ve hoarded, wrap themselves in my cardigans, and drink from my collection of mugs. They’ll make a big meal with everything left in my cupboards, and sit on my living room floor, talking about the times I forced everyone to go around a table on birthdays to say their favorite things about one another. Then maybe they’ll go around and say their favorite things about me.

When I die, I will not actually disappear. Even if there’s not an afterlife like the philosophers and theologians and doomsdayers predicted. I’ll stick around, because I’m stubborn. I’ll walk around the parks I’ve always loved, collecting fallen ginkgo leaves in my pockets, then head back home at the end of the day to kick my feet up and relax. I’ll listen to my friends making fun of my bad habits and crying about the times I used to make them smile. I’ll make sure the food they’re cooking doesn’t burn and add a little extra pepper for good measure. I’ll witness their successes and pull them out of their slumps and set them up to be so in love with everything and everyone they encounter. I’ll keep them safe.

I’ll wait until everyone else dies, collecting my loves one by one over time, delighting in my head-start that guided them. It’ll be like picking them up from the airport and taking us all home.

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