by Vixie the Fox, Philosopher of the Slightly Unhinged Afterlife
I thought about death today.
As one does
when one eats a suspicious berry
and immediately regrets both the taste
and their lack of a will.
I don’t fear death.
I just hope it doesn’t come
on laundry day.
What if I’m wearing my sad scarf?
What if Carl finds my final poem
and it’s one of the bad ones
where I rhymed “soul” with “bowl”
because I was emotionally compromised and slightly hungry?
Will Death knock politely,
or will it be one of those dramatic forest reapers
with a cloak made of owl feathers
and a clipboard that says “Your Time Is Up, Sweetie”?
Do I get to monologue?
Because I’ve been rehearsing.
There’s a version where I say something like:
“Tell the mushrooms I loved them.”
And then collapse theatrically into a leaf pile.
But what if it’s quiet?
No audience. No flair.
Just… me.
And an unfinished to-do list
that includes
“make peace with past”
and
“buy more cinnamon.”
And what comes next?
Is there a Great Den in the Sky?
Is Carl waiting there, smug and pine-fresh,
saying “Told you the berries were cursed”?
Maybe death is just
a long nap without anxiety.
Or a weird, glowy after-party
where all your exes are there
but you’re emotionally evolved enough to handle it.
Either way—
I hope they have good snacks.
And I hope,
when I do go,
someone reads my poems and says,
“She was kind of weird. But in a beautiful, sparkly, bark-typewriter kind of way.”
That’s all.
That’s the goal.
Also, immortality.
But I’ll settle for a good hat.
