The Blue Angel

"I heard an angel speak last night and he said 'write'" Elizabeth Barrett Browning T here was a cemetery across from the street where I lived when I was young. H ot summer days could find us there strolling down its winding shady pathways, E ven racing bikes or playing Hide ’n Seek among trees and ornate granite stones. B eyond the wide middle part of that graveyard, way in the very back, L ay a secluded area set apart for the deceased of a prestigious family. U ltimately my siblings and I ended up at the mausoleum in the center of that spot. E ager to view its main attraction, we would stand on tiptoes before its window. . . . A ll kinds of angels were scattered throughout that cemetery's sprawling lawn, but N ot one outdid the angel appearing violet blue through that stained glass window. G uarding the tomb of a small child, she knelt gracefully, her true hue pure white. E ventually after years of showing her to friends, I left home forever; on my mind L ingers this memory; on tiptoes, I'm marveling, face pressed against blue glass.