Death Came to Dinner

By Peter Bowden

Death came to dinner wearing a borrowed tuxedo and a crooked bowtie. He knocked politely, shoes polished, scythe left respectfully at the door. The family, halfway through a pot roast, looked up as he entered and offered him the folding chair near the end. “You’re early,” Grandpa said, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “We were expecting you next Tuesday.” Death cleared his throat. “I got ahead of schedule,” he muttered, “traffic was light.”

No one seemed particularly fazed. The dog sniffed his robe and lay back down. Aunt Trudy offered him a slice of lemon pie, which he accepted, despite never having had dessert before. “So what happens now?” asked Mom, pouring him sweet tea. “Do we all keel over or is it more of a raffle situation?” Death shrugged, mouth full of meringue. “Honestly, I just came for the company. Most people scream. This is nice.”

They played dominoes after dinner, and Death lost every game. When the clock struck ten, he stood, bowed, and said he’d come back when the pie ran out—or after Grandpa finished telling that same fishing story for the hundredth time. “Bring your scythe next time,” Grandpa called after him. “We’ll need it to trim the hedges.”


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