Monday Rewrite A man took a walk in a public garden when a figure stepped from the shadows.
‘We have an appointment,’ Death said to the man.
‘So we do,’ said the man.
‘You know?’ said Death.
‘Friday, I believe,’ said the man.
‘You’re not afraid?’
‘Of course. But there is more to this than you know. Another layer. Another dimension.’
Death laughed. ‘Well, come Friday it won’t matter,’ he sneered.
‘On the contrary,’ said the man, ‘on Friday everything will matter. Which is why you must not be late.’
‘I can’t believe you’re telling me what to do,’ said Death. ‘I’m never late. Just make sure you’re ready.’
‘I am,’ said the man. ‘And so is the universe.’
Death shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said. He paused then went on, ‘You cannot make everything right, you know. Too much is wrong.’
The man said nothing.
‘You cannot fix everything,’ Death persisted, narrowing his eyes. ‘Trouble will go on. This event on Friday, it’s no snapping of the fingers. You can’t just say a word and bring light.’
The man said nothing.
Death turned away. ‘I’ll see you Friday.’
‘It’s the beginning,’ said the man quietly and Death paused and looked back. He had to strain to listen.
‘Of hope. Of light,’ said the man. ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘I will win,’ said Death, ‘it is written.’
‘On Friday, yes. But not ultimately.’ For a moment the two figures locked eyes.
‘In every smile, every moment of kindness, every small selfless act, any offer of encouragement; when the system is bucked, when God is respected… there will the glimmer of Sunday,’ said the man.
‘Sunday?’
‘Yes, and a little thing called resurrection.’
Death hesitated, looked confused.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
The man smiled. ‘You don’t need to.’
And the two parted company.
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