Do Angels Have Birthdays

Hail descended in sheets, like glacial pebbles falling through a rend in the linens of heaven. Wind tore at the branches of the upper canopy, the birch happily bending with each assault, while the pines stood defiantly, their rigidity costing them the integrity of their roots. The waves pounded the shore, stealing away crumbling bits of moss and loam with each retreat. Earth becomes water. Land becomes sea. And just as nearby Lightning split the core of a reverent oak, a heart broke in half on the forest floor. Tears dissolved into pillows of moss and incandescent wails melded with the shrieking of the wind. And in the eye of the storm, a desperate pulse was sent out into the universe. A plea as ancient as time itself. A prayer whispered by every captain lost on a raging sea. Tell me what to do. Send help. Show me a sign. Tell me what to do. Send help. Show me a sign. Postmarked to the Universe, Fate, God, or simply an apathetic energy that binds together every element in existence. The destination didn't matter. The intention of the pulse was clear. Pushed as desperately out against the tides of fate as a mother might push her only child into a lifeboat before surrendering her breath and disappearing below the surface.

At dawn, the waters had stilled. A heavy mist cleansed the land of the vestiges of nocturnal misery. Sun beams bent through the prisms of sap dripping off each broken bough. And a silent angel arrived. Hope in human form. A tall, lithe body glided over the grassy knoll, her ephemeral white gauze tunic caressing drops of morning dew as it traced her graceful steps. A veritable cascade of golden waves framed a face so imbued with radiance that any attempt to stare directly at it was like daring to stare into the sun itself. A laugh so musical and young that it was the laugh of the very first child who shrieked gleefully while watching a cricket dance outside the garden of Eden. Eyes so deep and soulful, you know they bore witness to the first sunrise at the dawn of time. Hands so expressive, they are able to mold conversations out of thin air and spell out the true names of each plant in the forest. Curves of a siren, that both beckon and challenge, rekindling flames of desire in every human who gazes upon her. A heart so open and pure, people pour out their souls into her elegantly open arms, trusting her to hold their greatest fears, bear witness to their tears. A soul so beautifully aged, it was surely bottled at the Genesis, growing richer and more vibrant with each millennia traveled. Steeped in an ancient wisdom, she knew the answer to every prayer. And she shared that secret with everyone she met. A giving spirit, a gifted pebble, a lilting laugh and she was gone. Lifting spirits throughout her sphere as easily as one might lift the drooping face of an orchid toward the sky. To know her is to realize a primal thirst, like the one that stirs in a dusty pilgrim staring at a desert oasis, then having it slaked with the hydrating balm of her calm aura. To be near her is to be infused with the magic that cloaks her, to overhear the whispers of animals that entrust their secrets to her, to be inspired by her sacred passion to plant the seeds of your own creativity into a garden of hope. To know her is to be heard, understood, seen. To know her is to be held, uplifted, loved.

To know her is to know an angel. A loving pulse the universe pushed back to a lonely world that fate had forgotten. A feathered love letter to humanity. A dazzling shaft of sunlight from the heavens.

Happy Birthday Heather