Today I closed my eyes and saw against a charcoal sky the brightness of an angel with its wings extended. Its white arms reached down toward me and I was instantly awed and afraid. For what could an angel want with me? I have done nothing to draw its attention, nothing to merit any prize from Heaven.
The angel's expression told me nothing, for it was blank and blind. Should I let it embrace me? But angels, like wild animals, are probably best left to themselves. They may bite, may have rabies; this one might have infected me with something holy that burned away parts of my soul.
Better not to risk it.
It was gone almost as quickly as it had come, though the sight of it remains emblazoned on the back of my eyelids, the posterior of my mind. Like lightning . . . Do we see angels backward too? Perhaps it looks as if they are coming down but really they are going up. In which case this one was never reaching for me at all except to ask for me to keep it grounded. Maybe Heaven is a terrible place, or at the very least boring, and the angels don't like it. Maybe Heaven mines for angels that have hidden here on Earth, and once striking them like so much gold, Heaven takes them up for a polish and fashions them into something lovely for God to wear on special occasions.