Stack

Wyatt sent off a couple of emails, put the kettle on, and surveyed the stack of books next to his favorite chair. "I'm gonna hate to finish YOU," he said to the top of the pile, "but insomnia wreaks havoc on a curious mind." "Hello," Death said, stepping out from the drapes. "Or ... maybe I'll never finish you," Wyatt said, freezing in mid-stride. "Oh, no, you will," the angel said pleasantly. "I'm not here for that. You know - THAT. Not yet." "Do you want some tea?" Wyatt asked (still frozen). "No, I'm good," Death replied with a bony wave of its hand. "I just wanted to come by and, well, thank you. Do you a good turn." It gestured for Wyatt to sit down and, as he was feeling a bit weak in the knees, that was a welcome invitation. "You've never missed a beat to talk about me and my work in the most beautiful of ways - easy, natural talk that has put so many at ease. You'll just have to trust me that a great number of people, when I show up, relax into repeating what you've told them about moving on - free of limits, lights brightly shining; all true, but all very much forgotten in the crush of medical bills and pressing bladder control." Wyatt laughed. "So I'm here to give you some little deaths," the angel said (and Wyatt's eyes grew wide). "NO, NOT THAT," Death shook its skull. "Gawd, I'm never going to forgive John Donne for making this weird." It sighed. "Sleep is the little death and dreams the light beyond. For a few nights at least, let's give you a solid eight hours with unprecedented REM." And Wyatt clapped his hands with glee, positioned his head pillow just so, propped his feet up, and covered himself with his favorite blanket. "I'll see YOU later," he said to the book stack affectionately (and Death touched his hand with a pinkie bone). "Nighty night," the angel whispered.