Postmarked 2027

Well, if this isn't the strangest thing?

How. In. The. Hell.

This has to be a joke. The Post Office is messing with my head.

A letter from me, seven years from now.

Okay, I'll bite, I'll just open this up and read the joke played on me.

Ohmygod! This is my handwriting!

Here is what will happen to you, October 21, 2027.

Your death will be a simple one. You won't be murdered,

hit by a car or a bus ... nothing quite so tragic. You will

simply go for a walk around the lake, suddenly become

tired in the knees, find a lakeside bench, sit down, and lean

over, closing your eyes. There won't be any last few seconds

of seeing your life flash before your eyes, nothing melodramatic

will happen; you will simply fall into what everyone falls into ...

the last sleep you will ever need.

This is so strange, especially since there is a lake across from where

I live.

Seven years.

And to think? I can't even remember the amount of times I had

asked God to tell me how I would die, yet alone why am I still

alive.

Strangely enough, I find myself without worry or fear now. I have

seven years in which to make the most of them. I guess this is where

I make my bucket list.