3 Angels

It has been hard lately. It is China, and an endless article in the New York Times about how they are feeding our last hopes for continued life on earth to a slipshod, coal-powered material nightmare. It is my grandmother, who fell while alone in the house and laid on the floor four hours before my cousin came home to find her. It is all grandmothers, for that matter, continuously falling, some never getting up, the pathetic severity of it all. It is my cousins spoon feeding her the brown, watery, flavorless soup they made while she does not cook anymore, when they should be out riding bikes in the waning hours of summer freedom. It is my mother, day after day, another front page article in The Miami Herald. She is the judge in what people are calling “another Elian.” She pretends not to know that whatever her decision, and however “right,” it could ruin her. It is the inherited melancholy that connects my family to one another. It is my father’s voice on the line– another vaguely bad day. It is the feeling that I have nothing to show for myself, even though I am working now. It is what happens when I am honest with myself about anagramming being perhaps nothing more than a waste of time.

And yet, hope and beauty still come in some of the most unexpected packages. This is the second time I’ve found it in the religious kitsch of the dollar store (my first purchase being a lace tablecloth of the Guadalupe, currently serving as a wall hanging).

I thought: “For two dollars, I could sure use a guardian angel.”

Rachel provided its home.

Day 1

Day 3

Day 7

Day 10

Plus, I got a necklace.

Rachel will doubtless want her drinking jar back, but I must admit I am reluctant to pour out the water. The angel will shrink back down to its original size at an untested pace. It may turn out to be as deflating an image as this one was uplifting.