A Job to Do

I’d imagined becoming a butterfly or a harp-playing angel or nothing at all following my death. It was a shock, therefore, when shortly after I died I found myself standing at a busy roadside, dressed entirely in black, clutching an equally black scythe. I had no idea what I was supposed to do now.

My heart (does a grim reaper still have a heart?) folded in on itself when I spotted Elena, my daughter, waiting to cross the road. She looked left, right, left again.

I knew exactly what I was supposed to do now. Would do, in fact.