I have a bucket list, of sorts.
I don't really think of the list as things I want to do before I take my last breath. That seems a bit like encouraging the dying thing; bringing it in to focus.
Most of us, after all, just pretend dying will never happen.
My list isn't a long one—just enough entries to keep me moving forward. Some of them aren't much of a challenge, like the sweater I have been knitting for 12 years that sits in the top of my closet and stares at me every night as I drift off to sleep, wagging its finger at me and calling me unkind names.