Stress

I’m not religious.

But I know an angel.

Red hair, curl after curl,

tumbling over her shoulders, tumbling from her bow.

She had tons of freckles.  I tried to count once,

but I lost count past one hundred.

Anyone standing next to me would be called

heavenly, by comparison. 

But she was the real deal.

An agnostic angel.

The more you yell at an angel, 

The more you snap, 

Apologize, 

Say you’re not feeling well,

That you’ll try and do better, 

Their wings darken.

The white wings turn black.

The feathers fall out, crumbling into dust.

They begin to die.

I don’t pray.

But I pray she comes back.