When I was in fifth grade, I played Death in a school play. I brought home my script and showed my mother.

She winced. “Have… have any of them ever heard Death speak?”

I frowned. “Do you think he’d be offended?”

“No. He doesn’t usually bother getting offended.” My mother bought her lower lip. “It just… doesn’t sound like him. At all.”

I had wanted to invite him, because I thought he would find my portrayal of him funny. “Boo.”

“Is this script set in stone?”

“It’s that bad?” I thought about Death. Even I knew it was that bad. “I can totally own he. He’ll find it hilarious.”

My mother wasn’t sure, but I figured I knew Death a little better. He’d find it funny. I didn’t think he had ever said “forsooth” before in his life.

So I’d say it often.