I found my lost angel on the path, a very old brown dog with enormous wings, bent over,
tired and sick and breathing hard and covered with mud. She had been missing
from my life, and she had texted me once that all of the angels of the world
had been driven into hiding
by the anger and fear and warnings and doom and economists in the world.
My angel, had sent me
a text message telling me that she had gone to Washington,
to argue on cable news about whether God loved the left or the right, and after
one cruel debate, she had e-mailed me, and said it was a terrible mistake. She had been burned
by the divisions and lies and fury, was no match for the news, for the fear,
and caught fire.
I left a voicemail, and begged her to come back, although I was shocked and saddened to see her this way,
and did not know she was now in the form of an old and weary dog.
And panting. Feathers dropping like snow.
What has happened to you?, I asked. Oh, we angels are foolish sometimes,
and I thought I would do good, but I had flown right into Hell.
We are not perfect, you know.
Every warning in the world hurts an angel, makes us smaller.
They captured me – the journalists, the doctors, the politicians, the banks,
the insurance companies, the lobbyists, the angry bloggers, the priests and ministers, the gloomy people,
the nasty e-mailers, members of Congress, the CEO's – they put me in a crate, in a no-kill shelter
where I was supposed to spend the rest of
I told them better to kill me, this was no life, but they would not.
This was humane, they said, it was because they were merciful and good.
The road to Hell, I thought.
A spider woman was there, in another
crate, and she said they put here there because she was mad, and believed in peace,
but she was the only sane person there. A gracious woman.
And so she kissed me on the lips – I was beautiful once, sensual – and she turned me into a spider
and I crawled out of a windowsill.
And then I got your message wondering where I was,
and even though I am tired, and I am sick,
I came back, to do my job.
Who are you really?
Oh, you know me. I am sometimes called Gabriel Garcia Marquez, sent
by God to spin fabulous tales of healing, love and inspiration
that ignite the soul and paint it with color.
When I am not in the heavens, I am in Mexico or Cuba or Columbia writing my books.
They say I am old and forgotten and demented now,
but that is just their kind of story to make people forget me.
They kill light, is what they do. You can see I am old and sick, but I am here.
What is your job?
I am the voice in the wind, the ripple in the pond, the kiss on the lips
the leaf blowing on the path, the whistling pines, the first beam of light
in the morning, the rain falling on the roof.
I am the pictures you take, the stories you write, the inspiration
in your heart, the creative spark, the lovemaking, the love you seek and find.
When you are lonely, or afraid, or angry, I am here to take your
sweet soul in my aching hands and blow the breath of hope and
light into you. I am possibilities and expectations, we all are, here to cast a spell on you,
and keep the best parts of you alive and awake.
And is this what you want? What you need?
Yes, I must survive, even in hiding, even as an old dog. I will survive.
I did not come back to save you, my angel told me.
I am here to save me.