Passing Angel

passing AngelBorn bright and true this morning, I saw the moonflowers yawn and close their white-winged petals at first sunlight.

I came into my self on Jade Boulevard as the venders opened their stalls. Juthe, the peddler, glanced down into the gutter and found a coin. With a chuckle, he retrieved it and stashed it in his pocket as he mused—this coin will bring me luck today. I was the only one who noticed when the coin fell through a hole in his pocket and rolled again into the gutter.

For almost two hours, a lad named Ketral tossed pebbles into the Iris Sea and I watched his thoughts as he imagined his pebbles reaching distant lands. Later, when he stumbled and fell, on his way home, I touched his bruised knee and soothed his pain.

By early afternoon I was passing by your door and the quiet and sober voices inside drew me closer. I sat amongst you, listened to you read and peer into each other’s eyes. I heard your inner thoughts and felt your grief.

It was late afternoon by then and I went to the Hermit Inn to see if the crack in the front door had grown wider, since earlier this morning. Placing my hand on the crack, I was aware for the first time that I cast no shadow and I thought, when I scribe this too-short day into the Library of All Creation, how shall I begin and how shall I end?

As each passing angel remembers all it witnesses, I know of no clear beginning or ending or a grander moment than all the rest. I console myself with the thought that I saw a little, spoke to a few, and you heard my passing voice. Each drop of water that drips from your rusty shower pipe, I have savored. Even the hesitation between each drop remains precious to me. When I scribe my entry, I will remember you and that we watched as the evening painted the sky a rosy pink.

Martha Fawcett copyright 2015


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