Calling All Angels

A young girl ponders on the death of a loved one.

 

He told me he loved me. He had always told me he loved me. And I suppose he did; love me, that is. Maybe. Maybe he did once. Maybe he used to.

I will never know whether he really did love me, even for a little while. All I know is that he doesn’t now. He cannot now. If he were ever once capable of love, he is not any longer. He cannot love anyone or anything. He cannot laugh when he sees a small girl playing in the field with her puppy. He cannot cry if his family is murdered. He does not - cannot - feel. Not anything. Not at all. Not ever again.

I was the only one at the ceremony; Mother wouldn’t even come. The priest spoke for a time, but I didn’t listen. I told him to leave after a while. I told him I wanted to say goodbye. I don’t, really. I never want to say goodbye. I never want to let him go. Even when he stopped loving me, I would not leave. Even when he starting hurting me, I would not leave. Even when he began to hurt other people, I would not leave. I could not leave. I still can’t.

Silently, I rise from my seat. I haven’t seen his face since they laid him in. I told the diggers to leave a while ago. I won’t let them do it. I won’t let anyone do it; no one but me. I have to. I just have to do it myself. But the sky is darkening now; the winter chill is setting in all around me. I do not have much time before I won’t be able to see at all. I'll freeze. They will come back in the morning, and I will be frozen in the same place, never to move again. They will lay me next to him. I will stay there forever.

It is right in front of me. Just sitting there, innocently. Like it hasn’t done anything wrong. Like it never would. But it has; it has done wrong. In my eyes, at least. It may not have caused everything, but it is not innocent. All its perfect whiteness and fine craftsmanship os a lie. No; it is not innocent. It is his eternal bed. It is his rest. Nothing else can give him this peace; this comfort. Not even me. And for that, I am jealous.

He doesn’t even deserve it, Mother had said. He doesn’t deserve the beauty of it. The wood is fine, the paint shining in the sun. The shine cannot be seen any longer, though. The darkness hides it. I think he deserves to see the shine, if only he could. But if he were able to see the shine, then he never would have to. If he were able to see the shine, I would never have had to bother with it. I was the only one that saw the shine. I was the only one it made a difference to, anyway. He deserves the shine; I think he does. So I gave it to him, even if he will never be able to appreciate it.

I take the smallest of steps closer. I still cannot see inside; the larger part of me doesn’t want to. I am afraid. What will I find inside? Him. He will be there. But it isn’t really him there; it is just a shell. He is gone. So what is the point in looking at his shell? What is the point in saying goodbye to the shell? It doesn’t mean anything. Is it supposed to be symbolic, saying goodbye to the thing that once held what you loved? Well, it's not saying goodbye to the shell that's the hard part. Saying goodbye to an empty shell is easy. But if you say goodbye to the shell, are you too saying goodbye to the soul that was once inside it?

The wind picks up, and I wrap my sweater tighter around my upper body. My toes are getting cold. I had not expected to stay this long. If I had, I would’ve dressed warmer. I know I should just get it over with; there isn’t a point in dragging it on like this. I close my eyes and take one long step. I can feel the walls of the hole crumble off a little with the extra weight. I do not open my eyes, not for a long time. I just feel the chilly wind on my face; I let it whistle through the long hair that has fallen out of its clip.

Though the cold was no comfort, it hurts worse knowing that I am standing at the edge of his bed alone. Maybe I can understand why no one wants to kiss his pale face and whisper love. Maybe I can understand why no one wants to be at his side for the final goodbye. But what about me? Why does nobody think to come not to bid him farewell but to comfort me while I do so? Why does nobody consider how hard it is for me to stand by him alone?

I cannot stop the tears from falling; I do not try. It is nice to let myself cry sometimes. Mother has always told me not to cry as she hugs me to her chest and whispers words of comfort in my ear. She says I can’t cry because I am her angel, and angels do not cry. I think I disagree; angels have to cry. The tears of the heavenly host fall to earth as life-giving rain that nourishes everything it touches. What would the world be without the tears of heaven? What would it be like if angels never cried?

As I finally look down at his face for the first time since they laid him in the box, I think of angels. I imagine him as an angel, floating about heaven. A dry laugh escapes my burning throat as the image enters my mind; him, an angel? Ridiculous. Yet… something in me hopes he's up there somewhere over the clouds, watching out for me. It is silly to think; he has never looked out for me while on earth, so why would he do so while above it? That seed of doubt does not stop me from turning my face upward, just to check.

Something falls into my eye; something wet. I blink it out only to look up again incredulously as raindrops began to fall from the sky. Is it him? Could it be?

My breath comes almost in gasps as I rush to cover the box, to protect the thing inside it from the rain. It may be just a shell, but it is his shell. That has to mean something. I hold enough love for him to respect his shell, empty as it may be. Once the shell is safe, I take the shovel in my shaking hands and lift a pile of earth from beside the hole, tossing it back where it belongs. Soon, the whiteness of the box can no longer be seen; the dirt covers it entirely.

Once I have finished, I throw the shovel to the ground. My heart pounds the barriers of my chest as tears mix with the rain pouring down my face. I have done it. I have actually done it. The overwhelming triumph I feel, combined with the fatigue I have been unable to evade for days, causes my knees to buckle dangerously. Knowing nothing good can come of lying in mud for the night, I race off to the church not far distant. I collapse on the stairs of the dry sanctuary, listening to the heavy rain pound the roof as I drift into an exhausted sleep.

Goodbye, Father.

Author's Note

I attempted something with a sort of "stream of conciousness" feel. Any comments welcome!