January 27th, 2006


Last night, something answered.

The boy walked up to the angel. He was quiet, mystified, and reverent, though a little unsure how to approach her. The dress the angel wore was bell-shaped, and her wings stretched out wide behind her. A quiet smile graced her lips.

The child whispered something. Though I couldn't make out the words, I could tell it was an introduction of sorts. "Hello, I'm Juan," I imagined him saying. "Will you be my friend?"

The angels words were not meant for my ears, so if she responded, I never knew. But by the boy's reaction, I knew that she was speaking to him. "Of course, child," she said back. "I already am, and always have been."

A blush rose in the boy's face. His hands worked together, alternatively wringing and twisting in each other's grasp. He leaned in and whispered something in the angel's ear, one hand cupping so that no one else could hear the secret.
That is how I envisioned the conversation between boy and angel yesterday in class, where Dr. Jones showed us a picture he had taken in a four hundred year old cathedral that had Mariachi Masses.

And so last night, as I left singingwren at her door, I found myself with a sudden, strong desire to converse as the boy had done, to see what might be said and whispered in the cold wind.

I dug out my hat and my gloves, and buttoned my jacket, and pointed my car toward the Chadwick Arboretum and the labyrinth there.

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The promises and the wonderful things whispered in answer are only for me, though.

But they can be gathered if you simply ask the right question at the right time. Seek the proper thing to ask the question to, and you will get the proper answer.

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