The best death, many of us might agree, would be a quick, painless passing in one’s sleep, coming at the end of a long, robustly healthy life. It’s comforting to contemplate. But this brief piece is not about the best death. It’s about what I would consider the minimum for a good enough death. As I approach the beginning of my eighth decade this minimum has become exceedingly simple. Perhaps deceptively so. A good enough death would not need to be a dignified one. It would not have to be suffused with mindfulness and equanimity. It need not include the feeling that at base all things are one. It would not need to center on the warm satisfaction from having loved well, or having been well loved. It need not include a comforting sense of continuity for family, humanity, or conscious life in general. Of course I’m hoping my own death does indeed include all of these qualities. It’s possible. But it’s also quite possible my last days will be spent in, say, the opioid haze of a skilled nursing facility, with few cognitive nuances available. What might be a good enough death even in that situation? From my perspective it would include just one thing: courageous honesty about death itself. It would be the unadorned acknowledgement, flickering up through the opiates, that “I end here”. With a few more cognitive skills available, the self-talk might even be something like “this process called ‘me’ is about to disperse, once and for all.” What would not count as a good enough death? Delusion or self-deception. Clinging to the idea of personal immortality in a spiritual afterlife, quietly hoping against hope that it actually exists. Despite four centuries of scientific inquiry, there are still billions of people who, in Geoffrey Miller’s unsparing description, “. . . construct pathetic ideologies of self-comfort to plug their ears against mortal terror. They nuzzle into reality’s course pelt for a lost teat of supernatural succor.” What I’ve called courageous honesty might be rephrased as simply being adult about death. That is, not lapsing into childish fantasy about it, not hoping a supernatural parent will reach down at the end to scoop you up. We won’t be scooped up. We will just disperse. Such are the thoughts of a good enough death.