Lying in my wife’s yoga mat,

face down on the garden’s edge, staring at a pansy through my camera,

I was startled to hear a small yet deep voice whisper to me,

“Hey. listen to me!” And you either believe in fairies, or you do not,

and I do, and I said, “hey, what are you? Are you a fairy?” And the pansy

quivered in the wind, shivered a bit, and turned to me, and said, “well,

I am a death fairy.”

Nobody would expect that, I said.

Heh-heh, she said. They all think I wear a black cloak and carry a scythe.

They never expect a pansy.  People just love to be dark and gloomy.

So what is the point? Am I doing to die?

No, no, don’t be small, said the voice, louder now, more confident but still a whisper.

Are you here because of Izzy?

Yes, she said, that is what I do. Sorry, but you know…

Yes, I know. Was it really his time? I asked.

Oh, yes, that is not your problem, she said. Nobody ever thinks it’s their time.

But hey, I’m here for you, she said.

Ventilate, if you wish. We care what you think.

You are, after all,  lying in the garden, she said. You and your photos! A bit obsessive.

She sighed.  Where are you with all of this? she said. Sad, I sad, a bit sad. A bit of a fog.

And? she whispered, so softly I had to put my hear to the garden soil.

Ready to move on, I said.  Ready to move on.

I love my life, and just want to live it. Until you come for me.

Heh-heh. Let’s not go there.

So sing it with me, she said.  Then live your life. And her voice took on a high piping pitch.

Who do  you like? she asked.

I like Aretha, I said.

Okay, I can do Aretha, she said. Let’s do it in E-flat. And so we did.

Lying in the garden. Me and the pansy death fairy.

Move on, move on, move on. Five or six choruses.

The dogs moved to the other side of the yard.

And then the purple pansy shivered again, and turned yellow,

and then fairy was gone. Perhaps.