Angel of Joy

Gifts at a funeral. Red, silk packages amid teary eyes and bleeding hearts.
Gifts for the grandchildren left behind,
from an auntie always yelling at an uncle.
I guess, it was nice.
Ten little angels, eleven if I wanted to let my imagination get the better of me.
Angels of wire, as big as my thumb. A third of my hand. Blue, shimmering beads threaded onto paperclips with a gentle hand. A small metal dragonfly pinned at the bottom because
‘Dragonflies were her favorite,’. Why didn’t I know that? Does it matter now more than before?
I accepted the angel. To see forlorn family glow with the memories of a past buried deep.

But I did not want that angel.
That angel of pity.
Was it empathy or emptiness?

I stole the pink one later. The one sat peacefully within her china cabinet. The angel of Joy.
Clambering up on a rickety chair she told me never to climb on, I wrapped my fingers around
Twisting wire, smooth beads, an essence of something lost. Something missing.
Its new home is a shelf above my bed. The perfect spot for a guardian angel.
As I fall asleep it tells me of a life that I forget more and more about every day.
Binging Barbie VHS tapes, playing dress up with my raucous cousins, laughing with a person
Who I forget more and more about every day.

My angel holds memories.
Perhaps not all are mine
But they are the memories of an angel within an angel.
I knocked it off my shelf, one day.
Clink as it hit the ground
Shhhh as the beads escaped from their places. Rolling under my bed, all over the floor.
The wings are no more. Crushed in the calamity. I have taken away its ability to fly.
Maybe so that she’ll always stay near.

But now, my angel is broken and will always be broken.
But after all
My grandmother is gone and will always be gone.
So, I cherish an indirect gift.