What Death Looked Like
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