Journey

I drive through the night, the Angel of Death rides shotgun, sometimes she perches on my shoulder like a prized parrot squawking in my ear to remind me of her eternal presence, otherwise she sits beside me quietly preening her wings, satisfied that she has my attention. All in all she is a more agreeable companion than the Grim Reaper, he of hood and scythe, an overly serious chap too consumed by his job, always on call, I can’t imagine him perched on my shoulder, instead he sits there in his seat, tense, upright, forever all-business, insisting that I must turn here, turn there, that only he knows how to get to wherever it is we’re going and showing how eager he is to reach our destination. The Angel, on the other hand, seems in less of a hurry, less bossy, secure in the knowledge that our trip will ultimately be through and her purpose fulfilled. The moral of this story is simple, if you’re driving through a pitch-black night and are hailed by two hitchhikers, pick the wings over the scythe, you won’t live to regret it.