Que Bella, Anna
Angels don’t leave all in a hurry. Grief is measured in tempo, a ticking and tocking of time. They ascend slowly, it only seems sudden because light diminishes by inverse square. (It has to diminish by something and somehow.) And we, the saints, not beings of light, but beings in light, wait for our eyes to adjust. Sure, we still see the angel, but lose sight of the saints. We collide, and with each impact two will bruise, two may bleed, with (so we well know) only the darkness (the dim-inishing) to blame, though each of us acts as if the next saint in line made a target of us. (As if two particles of dust, floating randomly, could ever heartily, hatefully seek heat!)
Strange that this light, receding, expands as a cone, growing larger and lesser all of a piece. It dazes us (its lesson-ing), dismays and frays our nerves, yet never quite severs the ties that thread between and bind us as a body. Who is that tugging? Why would you yank on my chain, brother, sister? How can I yank back? (Because, fellow saint, that sure smarts, and I’m not so dumb as not to lay some blame, and you’re the side of a barn, and here’s my trusty atom bomb, CLICK!)
Which of us has angels in their lives? All of us do! And which of us don’t see them? All of us don’t! And what should we do to discover them? I’ll be damned if I know. Maybe pray? Or look up when that light washes over you, fellow babes in the Would. That’s when you must — not should — must, damn it all! — turn face, and let your back cast a shadow, but not your (then-gleaming) gaze.
Damn right, you’ll bruise and you’ll bleed, but that’s just love, which is all of life we’re allotted. Don’t whine about it, wind yourself around it before it winds down, weave yourself into it before it wafts away on a breeze. To live is to love is to lose, and the only other option’s oblivion. “Poised to lose” is “set to love” by any other name that might arise. We know this, people, we know it, deep down, engraved in our flesh like the prints of our palms. Still we dicker and tinker and twiddle and bicker and generally piss our days away like so much blah-de blah-de blah. We wake up just in time to see the title card reading “The End” and blame who-the-hell-knows-what-all for having shut our eyes and snored unobtrusively (because if we had at least snored lustily, someone next to us or behind us might have elbowed us awake).
All of which is merely to say: See the angel? Love the angel! See the saint? Love the saint! Damn it all, we simply must love as we’re losing, and that’s all there is to us.
That is all there is to us.