Death’s Happy Halloween

Death was busy. When wasn’t he? Yet, he wasn’t so busy as to miss the air chilling, the leaves coloring, and the stoops around town being decorated with carved pumpkins. Personally, he preferred a doorstep adorned with mums, so, once he realized how the days had changed, he took himself to the farmer’s market the first chance he got.

It was a seasonably sunny yet crisp Saturday morning. Just the kind of weather that could lull people into a false sense of hope that the coming winter couldn’t possibly be as brutal and cold as it’d been in the past. Gave them hope about themselves, that they could endure the hunkering down and the snowfall and whatever bitterness may blow their way. The sunshine was to blame. Its lingering warmth—when you stood sheltered from the wind and turned your face up toward the sky—was what pricked at a person’s optimism. Not that he understood how anyone could be optimistic these days, let alone fool oneself into honestly believing the Seasons might run counter to their very natures.

That was the joy and happiness he walked amongst once he arrived at Dooley’s Market. Children toddled or ran around the pumpkins, picking the one they wanted to carry home or, at least, as far as the wagon that would soon hold all their produce. Their little arms wrapped protectively about the orange orb they felt a special connection to, felt it was the size and shape that would fulfill all their jack-o-lantern dreams.

Those too small to understand why they weren’t yet strong enough to so much as lift a pumpkin from the ground grew red in the face, cheeks flushing, a moment from calling upon a father or mother. A moment from expression—most likely with tears—the unfairness of having made their choice but feeling that something nearly insurmountable had come between them and their destiny. Nearly being the operative word, of course, because they had full confidence in whichever parent was keeping an eye on them. They had faith their trusted, adored adult would swoop in, scoop up their treasure, and cart it away for them. Usually, they were correct in that.

It won’t always be so, Death mused as he observed, but they will learn all too soon. They will come to know, and this day in the sun will be a lovely, distant interlude they may not even remember.

Death could not help these thoughts, but he didn’t share them. Admittedly, it’d taken him a few centuries and one, pointed conversation with a dear friend before he’d learned that the world wasn’t ready for his inner-reflections. There were some things best kept to oneself. He’d learned and considered it an area of great personal growth that he’d adopted what the people of this era referred to as a filter. 

Gold star for Death, he thought and possibly would have chuckled to himself it wouldn’t have been off-putting for those in his vicinity to hear such a sound come from the tall, darkly cloaked and hooded figure in their midst.

It was true, he knew, that his presence was unsettling to the general public, but that was when he went away, went traveling for work. He’d lived in this town long enough and stopped being a recluse a few lifetimes ago that he wasn’t too much of an oddity, anymore. If he happened to be out in his yard when neighbors were out in theirs or passing by in their cars, greetings and/or waves of acknowledgement were exchanged. He’d even been invited to the annual Fourth of July BBQ one of them threw five years in a row now. That was something.

And today he’d dress up his stoop and add a friendly touch to the street with two, great mums. Of the maroon variety, if those weren’t sold out.

First, he had to get away from the pumpkins. Easily done. Then he moved past booth after booth of apples. Honeycrisps, Braeburn, Granny Smiths—were they really named after someone’s gran?—Pink Ladies. There were pre-bagged assortments, and, just as easily, one could choose for themselves what they wanted. The red, shiny peels caught his attention for a minute, but who was he kidding? He was no baker, no maker. Any apple he brought home, no matter his intentions, would sooner rot than be fixed into a pie or strudel or some such thing.

Fortunately, Dooley’s offered a stall of homemade baked goods, too. Those Death took his time surveying. One coffee cake wouldn’t ruin his figure. Two may even help provide a little padding for the coming cold months. One never knew but could buy and find out.

All in all, it was nothing short of a journey to go from one end of the market to the other. Death was distracted by all that was offered. Apple butters, berry preserves, roasted pumpkin seeds, a seemingly endless shelf of pies, and more squash than he figured one farm could produce. Gourds, multi-colored and uniquely patterned with stripes and bumps, spilled forth from bushel baskets. Sheaves of dried corn stalks leaned upon oak barrels. A free sample of caramel and apple slices was being handed out.

Finally, finally, the mums were found.

Only, the ones left for him were yellow.

Death frowned, disappointed. Yellow? Yellow? This wouldn’t do. Not for his house. He may have been working (and quite possibly failing) at beating the morbid allegations, but this was too much. These bright, buttery flowers were downright cheery.

Then he thought of his front step, as it was how he’d left it but half an hour ago. Bare. Empty. Dare he say sad?

He couldn’t bring himself to cave and go with the yellow, though. That he simply couldn’t do. Everyone knew if you made your stoop look too inviting you were asking for anyone and everyone to wander on up and lift the knocker. Next thing you knew, Girl Scouts and Jehovah’s Witnesses and those census people would be coming ‘round thinking they’ve found a sympathetic participant in their schemes.

There was one alternative option he knew he’d able to abide for the season, so he pivoted, turning his back on the offensive mums.

Retracing his steps across the length of the market, he returned to where it began. It was his turn to feel a near-spiritual connection with a pumpkin. A jack-o-lantern was the back-up plan. So be it.

Nevermind that, on top of not being a baker, he wasn’t artsy or crafty. He’d never undertaken such an activity, didn’t know what implement he needed to get the job done. Just a knife? One he might have in his kitchen? Was there more to it?

He’d need some help. Need someone to give him a few pointers. Good thing he had just the friend to call.

– – –

Life and Death had known each other for longer than they could agree on. They’d given up trying to pin down the precise millennium they’d become buds because it, inevitably, dissolved into reminiscing about days gone by. Kingdoms they couldn’t believe had actually crumbled and fashion items they’d been all too happy to see left behind and acquaintances they had to really rack their brains to recall the name of.

In all that time, Life had never been asked to assist her hooded friend with such a frivolous task. Yet, Death couldn’t think who would be better to rely upon.

“You never do this,” Life had immediately pointed out when she’d arrived and was brought in the loop. “Why didn’t you go with some mums like you usually do?”

“They didn’t have the maroon ones.”

“So? They come in other colors. The yellow ones are so delightful.”

Death narrowed his eyes at her. “You would like those, wouldn’t you?”

She simply smiled and shrugged.

In every friendship, allowances were made because everyone had their quirks, the ways they didn’t see eye-to-eye with you. A display of too much glee and gaiety was known to turn Death’s stomach, but he had to let Life indulge in as much as she could. He’d seen what it was like when the world weighed on her, and it was never preferable, even to him. Those were heavy, dark times. While he more easily sympathized with her then, the most fundamental pieces within him cried out that something was wrong. To see a friend who was a fresh spirit, renewed energy, be down and out was jarring. Disheartening.

Of course, Life was like that sometimes. There was no avoiding it. But, if he could not contribute to hurrying along the pending gloom, so much the better.

And that was something people didn’t realize about him. He didn’t wake up each morning with the express purpose of ruining as many people’s days as possible. He had a job to do, yes, but it wasn’t to breathe terror and heartache into the world. He was never a maker, only a taker. There wasn’t an ounce of anything he could put into the world; however, he could help you leave this one. It was a responsibility of magnificent importance.

As much as dying was all the same—in the sense that it reached the same conclusion—each person’s passing was their own. There were times he’d arrive on the scene to find he was on the cusp of being late, usually when an accident was involved and the whole business had taken everyone by surprise. There were also times when he’d steal silently into a hospital room, gently take a patient’s hand, and kindly say, “Time is yours. I will hold your hand again when you run out. You have nothing to be afraid of, for you don’t have to walk into the darkness alone.” He may have to make the same visit to the same person a few times before they believed him, before they were ready to go.

Here’s another thing: He never rushed them. He never asked anyone to die faster. Father Time was the keeper of the clocks, and Death would not dare to meddle in the old man’s affairs.

Or consider this: Never was Death offended, when he’d been called again and again to a person’s bedside, to look up and find dear Life had made her own appearance. He knew when to gracefully bow out and leave her to bring them back to the land of the living.

Of course, Death understood why he constantly caught a bad rap with folks, and he couldn’t blame people for thrusting grief and anger and fear at him. He knew all too well what it looked like when someone realized they were losing or had just lost more than they were willing to part with. It was not his pleasure to peer upon those expressions, that agony.

Such was his lot, though. Such was the reason he needed Life as his best friend to help him find some semblance of balance.

They were digging out pumpkin guts and seeds when Life, in doing her part to lift Death’s spirits and keep him from disengaging with the world too much, said, “So, I was thinking you should come with me to a Halloween party this year.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s going to be fun.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t been, yet.”

She flicked a seed at him, which he, in a calm, dignified manner, brushed off his shoulder. “Don’t be a Scrooge—”

“Wrong holiday.”

“—because I think you’d have a good time, too. There’s going to be games and live music and a haunted house. Imagine how festive it’ll be!”

“Hm, yes, festive, to be sure.”

“Just say you’ll go with me?”

There was only so much resisting he could do, realistically. Life was known for getting her way, and he had to be a good sport about it, which was why he sighed, “Fine.”

“Great! Let me tell you what I’m thinking for my costume!”

That actually involved her finding something to wipe her hands on, cleaning herself of the clinging, stringy bits of pumpkin around her fingers, and picking up her phone. Death, who could not be convinced he needed more than the landline on the baker’s rack in the kitchen, had no idea who she might be calling to help her tell the story of her costume idea, but then she shoved the small screen beneath his nose. A collage of images—people dressed in togas and tunics and chitons—was there to view.

“I’m gonna go Greek this year. Do something lowkey yet fun. Kind of channel some of our hold friends’ vibes. You know, throwback to, like, Alexander or something.”

“Well,” Death couldn’t help the dry tone, “he died young, so…”

She drew her phone back and gave him a look. “Seriously?”

“He did, and it was a mess of a time.”

“Not this again…”

He gestured with the spoon he’d been diligently scooping with as he said, “It’s only been recently they’ve finally come around to believing someone slipped some poison into all that wine he drank. They’ve even started looking twice at that Aristotle guy. Remember him?”

“Yes,” Life sighed, “I remember Aristotle.”

“So, go Greek, if you must, but just remember that old crowd had a way of mucking things up. Though, I should say, at least you didn’t say you were thinking about going as Cleopatra. Now, there was a debacle like we’d never seen.”

Life tucked her phone away and, probably to get him onto a new subject, asked, “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Is dressing up mandatory?”

“Well, no.” Life frowned.

“Then, if you’re going to play Alexander, I’ll follow you around as myself and, when you drink too much of the punch, I’ll whisk you away and we can leave the party early.” He grinned at her.

She rolled her eyes—then had the audacity to chuck more pumpkin guts at him.

– – –

In the days that followed, Death thought not at all about what costume he’d wear to the upcoming Halloween party and more about excuses he might come up with to get out of going at all. Social functions weren’t exactly his cup of tea, unless he was called to one to escort a passing soul. Then those gatherings turned into awkward affairs of outbursts and emotions and all together uncomfortable times for everyone.

Even the funerals he’d been to (if those counted as social functions) were difficult for him. Difficult for all involved, no doubt. People figured Death would not mind the cloud of grief that hung about a parlor or graveside, but they were exceptionally depressing, weren’t they? He could only be convinced to attend if Life, upon really taking a liking to one interesting character or another, needed a friend at the very end as she bid farewell to that special soul.

Life had emailed him—grimreaper001@aol.com—a link to the website that had all the details about this Halloween party. That was how he learned it wasn’t even hosted by their dear, little village but, instead, was in the bigger city half an hour away. He’d really be among strangers then. They had photos from the previous year’s “fun,” and he recognized no friendly faces. A couple were familiar to him, sure, but unfortunate circumstances need not be gone into. Those he’d seen mourning could be left in peace, if they’d been able to find some.

Oh, bother, I really should just stay home, should I? he thought, not for the first time.

Was there anything that’d be happening at this bash he’d enjoy, aside from being in Life’s company? By the looks of it, the evening would be packed with color and noise and activities for all ages. It’d be like the farmer’s market—a place for the whole community—but ramped up on sugar. Life would pick a spot like this to spend an evening.

He could bear up for one night. He’d already agreed to go, so he would. After all, he’d endured worse things before.

So it was that, when Halloween dawned, Death was as ready as he could be for his social commitment. He made his usual cup of Earl Grey and sat with it on his front step, relishing the dreary morning.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he addressed the only other thing out there with him: his jack-o-lantern that, in his humble opinion, had turned out pretty well, for a first attempt.

Death interpreted the pumpkin’s toothy grin as agreement that, indeed, the day was beautiful.

It, Death had long ago decided, was about how the varied grey tones set off the vibrant hues of the maple leaves in his front yard. They positively popped against the drab, overcast background. Brilliant oranges peeked through the robust reds, and he could better tolerate the winks of yellow tucked in amongst them than he could anywhere else. Scampering around the scattered, fallen leaves were squirrels on their hunt for their treasured acorns. It was a necessary game of run and find and hide and survive. The pattering of their steps here and there was the sound of life on the move.

As he peered up and down his street, the cup of tea warming his fingers, he noted maroon mums a few houses down and felt no jealousy over how someone else had obtained what he’d once coveted. No one, his observations informed him, had a better carved pumpkin than he did. He was sure of it and quite content over the matter. Perhaps this meant the start of a new fall tradition for him.

Also included in his scope of his early-morning, sleepy street were the wisps of smoke curling from a handful of chimneys. Too many things in living and everything in dying were cold. That people should create and find warmth and welcome while they could was only right.

He only went back inside after finishing his tea because a light drizzle drove him to it.

That turned out to be the only pocket of peace he had all day because, up until it was time to go to the party, he had calls to field, hands to hold, and, for one lady, a small speech to give her regarding the fact that there was no bargaining with Death. One didn’t get to alter terms and conditions of their passing, no matter how compelling their case. The best he could offer was what he offered to everyone: a friend, in the end. Needless to say, not everyone saw that as the boon it was, but, then again, not everyone was ready to go when Father Time declared the clock had chimed its last for them.

Resistance made for a long day, though, so he was tired as he waited for his friend to pull up and whisk them off to the party. He stood in the front window watching for the first glimpse of her car. He was a good waiter, had to do loads of it for his line of work.

For her part, for her job, Life had to be good at breathing energy into people and situations, and that rubbed off on Death as he placed his scythe in the back and slipped into the passenger seat of her car. Rubbed off enough that he found within himself the willpower to not whine at her that he was giving up a night of crawling into bed early and listening to his favorite audiobook, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Grieving, Loss, and Healing.

He did turn an inquisitive look her way, though, when, instead of getting on their way, they idled at the curb. “Yes?”

“Where,” she asked, eyeing him up and down, “is your costume?”

“Next question, please.”

“But that’s the only one that matters right now!”

“We better be on our way, don’t you think?”

“What I think is that we need to swing by a Party City or something and get you something to wear that isn’t this old thing you always have on.”

Glancing down, Death pulled at the front of his black robe. Then he said, “You know the Sisters of St. Joe were beyond kind in gifting me this set. It’s an honor to wear their craftsmanship. Perhaps it’s been too long since you last looked at the lace they trimmed my hood with. Do you see?”

He leaned her way, and she gently pushed him back to his side. “Yes, I see. And, if I recall correctly, you weren’t sold on that bit, at the time.”

“Well, it did seem a touch feminine. But now I think people find it surprising, which I like. Always fun to go against the grain of what people expect.”

Lifting skinny, bony fingers, he touched a bit of the delicate, black lace. It was the only element of texture and decoration he’d allowed on his outfit. The rest—a durable, dark linen—was modest and unfussy. The sleeves were long and full, if a little worn from use and age, and the hood deep. The robe reached past his feet, which had taken some adjusting to once upon a time. A tripping hazard, it used to be, but he’d since perfected a gliding stride that posed no trouble whatsoever, thank you very much.

If he was interested in revealing too much of his heart just then, he would have made a greater defense of this robe he wore. Despite the lace not being his style, it’d grown on him because it pointed to the generous women who were responsible for the only gift he’d ever received. 

He’d been a visitor to their compound, and they’d seen him as others hadn’t, as others were more likely to avert their gaze. The attire he’d been outfitted in back then was so old and tattered, beyond any seamstress’s effort to salvage. Death hadn’t been bothered—who did he have to dress for?—until the Sisters had presented him with what they’d crafted and made him believe he could be acknowledged, cared about, before dying changed one’s perspective and left them with no other option for company on the dark road. Those women weren’t already on Father Time’s agenda, yet they’d looked Death in the eye all the same. Since then, he’d made it a point to keep his robes neat, clean, and tidy. It was the least he could do to show his appreciation.

“I suppose,” Life sighed, finally shifting gears and getting back on the road, “we don’t really have time to waste.”

“Besides, your costume looks good enough for the both of us.”

  “That’s now how costume parties work, but thank you, Death. I made this toga myself, by the way.”

“Did you really?”

Most of their drive was dedicated to discussing Life’s DIY skills—applied not only to the toga but to the crown of laurel leaves upon her head, too—and Death almost forgot they were speeding through the night toward a crowd of strangers who could never feel comfortable in his presence. He loved listening to Life. She could talk—and did—about something as unexciting as the new hot glue gun she’d had to buy, and that small anecdote came alive in ways nothing in Death’s influence ever could.

Generally, when people thought about Life, they pictured bright, boisterous things. The obvious explosions of expression that so boldly announced that existence was alive and well. A crying newborn! Summiting a mountaintop, literally or metaphorically! A first kiss! Dancing! Singing! Laughing!

Yes, that was Life. Yet, she was also found on quiet afternoons at the cabin, a card game playing out on the dock. On pleasantly sleepy evenings when a booming thunderstorm kept you inside on the couch with your favorite film. On excursions to the local library, out to eat for family dinners, and at the park watching your nephew master the monkeybars.

He, more than most, was attuned to all things Life because he knew so well what she was not. He’d been in too many rooms where she’d been fleeting and then gone.

There’d been an era when he’d wished he’d been given her job instead of his, and he’d wrestled and skulked and brooded. Why did he have to be the one to ferry souls and be there at the final breath? Why had this been put upon him? Did no one see that he had rather slim shoulders, actually, for all this weight to bear down upon? He’d been tempted to spend an eternity resenting Life.

Father Time wouldn’t hear of it, wouldn’t stand by to watch Death become his worst self. So, he’d stepped in and summoned his reaper.

“You find this all unfair,” the ancient entity had said, without Death having to do more than show up. “You wish this had all been divvied up differently.”

It didn’t take a wise, old man to see that. Death was over it. Death was done with it all.

Father Time went on, making a few more obvious statements. “You think you’ve been allotted the odious work of tending to souls on their way out of this world. You think your labor is insignificant because all the living has been done, by the time you’re called upon.”

What was there to say to that? He wouldn’t lie to refute those claims.

“I had hoped,” Father Time’s tone shifted to one tinged with gentleness, “by now you would’ve seen your importance in—how you factor into—all this living and dying. What you mean to Life. How your presence sets this world in perspective.”

Confusion—the first thing that wasn’t anger or bitterness Death had felt in some time—made his ears prick up. Had he heard that right? What could the clock keeper be getting at now?

“What is Life without Death?” Father Time asked then began answering for himself. “It is one, endless existence, the weight of which that doesn’t signify. Doesn’t set in. Oh, Life is still a thing of beauty, of immeasurable value. She always has been and always will be. How do we see that, though? How do we experience that fullness of experience and being? Only when we know it’s fleeting. Only when we know it’ll fade and we along with it. With that wisdom, we better understand we must claim agency and take action over the numbered days we’ve been given because they are what we have. They’re not finite to scare people and bring them fearfully to your arms, Death. Life is giving us one, long lesson, preparing souls for what comes next, and she needs your help to do so. Do you see, Death? Do you understand how you help each of us, here and now, find the gifts and goodness of today?”

Finally, Death spoke, the anger he’d harbored broken down. Sorrow pulled out, front and center, because he couldn’t see. “I understand that I carry away fathers from their families, babies from loving arms, friends from hearts that aren’t ready to let go. I don’t see the dignity, the grace, you think I’ve been bestowing simply by accepting this responsibility.”

“I know.” Still with kindness Father Time addressed this depressed, aggrieved spirit. “And I am at fault for that. All this time, I should have been doing more to keep you connected to this land of the living. So, I’m telling you now: Life needs you, Death—and you need her, too.”

Death hadn’t wanted to take Father Time at his word, but he hadn’t wanted to continue on as he had been. Would it be so bad to meet Life, greet her with the intentions of friendship, and let her help him see what living was all about?

The fact that he couldn’t count the hundreds of years of camaraderie that had piled up between them and now was riding shotgun listening to her talk about her day was answer enough.

In a quiet moment after the DIY talk had concluded, Death said, “Thanks for inviting me to this party, Life.”

She beamed at him. “Thanks for coming with me.”

Said party, when they parked and made their way to where the festivities were at-play, covered nearly the entire grounds of a small park and was as packed as the photos online from last year had led Death to expect. The sun had disappeared behind the horizon by then, so lamp posts and Chinese lanterns—some of which were shaped like pumpkins—provided cozy illumination. The lanterns were attached to the roof of a central pavilion, strung up to stretch over the heads of the revelers and hang fast by the support of trees on the other ends. Booths, tents, and food trucks were arranged in a circle around the pavilion, and, within that perimeter, merriment was in full swing surrounded by stacks of straw bales and wooden cut-outs of monsters. By smoke from tiny machines in the confusion of fake cobwebs. By an abundance of orange and black balloons.

Picnic tables beneath the pavilion provided people a place to sit and enjoy treats from the vendors while listening to the band occupying a small stage. It was the place parents retreated to while still being able to keep an eye on kiddos waiting in line for the haunted house. And, if you didn’t want to sit and relax, there was plenty else to do.

Life wasted no time dragging Death from one booth to another. There was face painting, witch hat ring toss, apple bobbing—How unsanitary, Death grimaced—and a pinata ghost every kid seemed to want to take a whack at. Life challenged him to a round of pumpkin bowling and beat him handily.

It was while they were trying to decide which food truck to patronize that the music paused long enough for a man dressed as Dracula to take the mic and announce, “We’ve got half an hour until we announce our contest winners, so don’t forget to cast your vote. That’s for Best Costume and Best Jack-o-Lantern. You can vote for both over at the cider tent!”

Like that message had been expressly for Death, he looked about for the right tent and moved in that direction.

“What about food?” Life asked, following.

“I’ve got to vote for you first,” Death replied as if that was obvious, “and then I have to see the pumpkins. I want to know how my carving skills measure up.”

What he discovered, as they came upon a long table lined with intricately carved produce, was that he had a ways to go, if he ever wanted to compete amongst the local talent. This went beyond what he’d thought the pumpkins would look like. He’d expected simple faces, triangle eyes and wide grins like his.

Instead, the table held art. Of a kind he’d never beheld. This one was just a gaping mouth with huge fangs—“Oh, like Venom,” Life said—and the one next to it had a whole galaxy of meteors and shooting stars covering every last inch of it, lit up from within. Also lit up was an orange Starry Night and then an owl whose feathers were as detailed as the real thing. One amazing thing after another after another.

He viewed them thrice before Life said, “Okay, we gotta vote before we run out of time.”

Good timing on that because they just submitted their ballots when Dracula took the stage again, waving the ladies with the ballot boxes—one dressed as Dolly Parton and the other as the Wizard of Oz girl—for them to join him. “We’re going to count everything up quick and announce the winners shortly!”

“Great! We can finally get food now while we wait,” Life declared.

One order of loaded nachos and a cup of chilli later, they were claiming spots at an empty picnic table. Dracula was back, once again, as Death was enjoying his chilli but secretly plotting what he’d do next year to up his jack-o-lantern game. What Life, meanwhile, was doing was what she did best: making fast friends with the folks who’d asked if they could sit with them.

Death was so deep in thought—truly, he’d not been this inspired in a while—that he didn’t, at first, understand why a great beam of a spotlight had been turned upon their table. How annoying. Didn’t they know how bright it was?

It took being elbowed by Life for him to realize the spotlight was focused on him, specifically.

“Don’t be shy,” Dracula was saying, “come on up!”

People began clapping as he stood, Life excitedly saying, “You won! You’re Best Costume!”

The surprise in her voice was difficult to miss.

Chilli in one hand and scythe in the other, Death wended his way between tables and around people to join the MC on the platform. My, there were really a lot of eyes on them, weren’t there? How uncommon it was to be so blatantly stared at. People didn’t prefer to look upon Death so openly. They’d get a good Halloween fight, if only they knew.

“All right,” Dracula said, clapping him on the back, “congratulations, dude! Killer costume! Where’d you get it from?”

Death clocked the way the man eyed the blade in awe, like he wanted to ask if it was real and sharp. “Um, it was made for me.”

“Made for you? Wow, that’s so cool!”

“Yes, the Sisters—”

“Your sisters made this? You must be one well-loved brother. Everyone, give it up for—Uh, what’s your name?”

“I am Death.”

“Right…Very in-character. Everyone, give it up for Death!”

At their table, one among many clapping, Life shook her head yet bore an amazed smile.

Yes, Death mused, who would have thought I’d ever hear such words? And just for showing up as myself?

Not he, that was for sure.

The town clock struck the hour then, and it made him believe that maybe Father Time had always had an inkling.