In Memory of Chita Rivera

"Uh ... uh ...," he stammered as the soul approached. It stepped confidently forward in red; it was ... breathtaking and distracting. "Um ... okay ... so, yes, we ... uh ... have you here," he told the soul, making a mark on the scroll to check it in. "Well, I'm glad that I made it," the soul whispered. "Mistakes will be made, but it's important to make your abuela proud." It winked at him and he dropped the feather quill (which toppled off of the podium and floated down to the cloud floor). The soul bent to pick it up, placing an elegant hand over its décolletage and smiled up at him. "Uh ... uh ...," he was back to sputtering. "So ... I'm on the list ... may I head in?" the soul sang out, turning the afterlife into musical theater. "Yes, uh ... I'm sorry ... of course," he labored and had to concentrate to press the button. As the gates opened, the soul danced in, strutting, singing loudly and proudly in Spanish (a dance song from her physical youth). "Honestly," Peter chided himself as the gates closed on the throng that had come to welcome the soul, "I gotta pull it together." That spark was really something.