As Much As I Miss Her, It Was Grandma’s Time To Walk With The Grim Reapster

When we die we’re taken home to Reapster Manor. You’ve never heard this?

Robert Criss
Published in
2 min readMar 7


Photo by Mario Wallner on Unsplash

While grieving, it helps to remember that dying is just part of life — more specifically, the last part. When the Grim Reapster comes for you, it’s just your time to go. The grand finale, the last hurrah. In this case, the Reapster — Grim as he may be — was calling Grandma home.

What’s wrong? Is it something I said?

I was just saying when we die, and everyone dies so there’s no sense fearing it, we’re taken home to Reapster Manor where we train under the tutelage of the Grand Reapster who teaches reapsting, gives us a cloak, and then when we graduate we’re awarded our very own sickle.

You’ve never heard this? Oh yeah, it’s a whole thing.

It’s a six year track with a two year work-study program where you’ll shadow top-ranking Reapsters in the field. If it makes you feel better, Grandma could’ve been taken by a Reapster with an apprentice so she might’ve got an early look at the specialized training she has ahead of her.

Why are you making that face? You okay?

It helps me to think of it as a fun sabbatical that we never return from where we’re stripped of our flesh all the way down to the bone. And then once we’re sporting our new skeleton bodies, we won’t be judged on our looks or race by our skeleton peers because we’re all identical, working toward the same goal of becoming a non-denominational Reapster certified in all regions indigenous and foreign — they just added Hawaii and Alaska. Plus they have a great cafeteria.

Does that help? They serve bulgogi on Wednesdays.

It’s a lot to take in but you’ll come around. You’ll have to. The penalty for flunking out is 999 years of landscaping the Manor’s thousand acre grounds and they don’t let you use a lawnmower or even a sickle. You’ll be forced to use a pair of left-handed scissors.

Don’t worry. It doesn’t happen often.

I’m excited to die and you should be too. I hope I’m the Reapster for my kids’ deaths and if I die soon enough, maybe the Reapster I’ll get is Grandma. I’ll call her Gram Reapster!

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Robert Criss

humor writer feat. in Slackjaw, Points in Case, Weekly Humorist, 251, Little Old Lady Comedy, Robot Butt, Flexx Mag.