Some weeks ago, we learned that the matriarch of a family, my good friend Anna, is dying. She is 75 and has inoperable esophageal cancer, and the doctors say it will only take a few more weeks or months. Anna is dying the way I want to die–at home, surrounded and lovingly tended by her family: her devoted husband of 54 years, her three daughters, her three worshipful sons-in-law, her adoring granddaughters. All of them see her every day. All of them are a part of a mutual struggle to give Anna a “good death” Anna, too, is a part of it. And, in a very small way, I am part of it, because I have been invited to be. Every few days, I walk next door and spend a few minutes talking to Anna.