Finish

"Honey," Myrtle said to the Angel of Death, "we need to talk." It was surprised and sat down next to the bed. "You are the big finish, the curtain call, and the standing ovation, baby. You are the bees' knees and the shiznit of all time." It started to speak, but Myrtle shushed it. "So, what's with the skulking down the hallway, eyes down, and shuffling to the bed?" "Well, I ... I really ... ," the angel began, so she shushed it again. "Shoulders back! Eyes forward! Take some pride in the ride! I'm not taking the hand of some namby pamby angel that's coming in here like Charlie Brown on a bad day!" Myrtle explained. "No, Sir. Nu-uh. You go back to where you came from and put some razz on your matazz ... then I'll go with you. Go on." And the angel DID go on, back down the hallway, reeling from the exchange, feeling called out ... but also seen (in the very way it had needed to be seen for millennia). When it arrived the next day, it had roses and a spring in its step.