This is my rough sketch for the cartoon that I want the Husband to draw for my future obituary. Death is sporting a Hawaiian shirt. Me, a flouncy skirt. "Hello. What's your name?" asked the young man. "Death," said 18-year-old me. It was a late afternoon nearly 50 years ago. My answer, of course, gave him a start. To this day, I have no idea why he even walked over to the swings where I was sitting, the only person in the park until he and his friends drove in and parked near the bathroom. Our paths crossed once before when I was in first grade and he in second. In high school, I perceived him as being one of the "wild and tumble" guys. And, wouldn't you know it, he eventually would become a pastor. Instead of making a quick getaway, the future pastor sat on the other swing next to me. Not really what I wanted. He seemed sincerely concerned that I had called myself Death . He probably thought I was suicidal or maybe psychotic. Far from