She thought Death would look like a cloaked man with a sickle

With his hood pulled up so she couldn't see his face

Or maybe like a slick man in a crisp suit

And a fedora smothering his face in a timeless and concealing shade

She thought he would arrive in a dark carriage pulled by whining horses

Black as pitch and loud as squealing tires

Or a sleek, curvy mustang with spinning rims and a witty license plate

Made with metallic ebony and etched with depictions of some iconic Biblical scene

She thought he would stroke her neck with a skeletal hand

That clacked like beads when the bones touched against her and themselves

Or he would draw her in close and kiss her softly, whispering

"Time to go now, sweetheart."

She imagined Death a lot of times

And she pictured Death a lot of ways

But not once did she anticipate he would look like her dad

Angry as alcohol and wielding a beer bottle

like a scythe