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Sister Angel, Mommy Angel

Two tiny pairs of shoes adorn the top of my stove where salt and pepper shakers used to rest. They are no longer functional for the purpose they were made, it has been decades since they protected the little toes of my two children as they toddled around the yard exploring their curious worlds. Cooking is not my favorite task, so having these to evoke fond memories while I am in the kitchen brings joy. Today I go deep in my brain waves, picturing my son playing in the mud (at 27 he still does) and my daughter kicking off her shoes from the stroller as we headed around the block. Their perspectives were so fresh back then, their hearts were bigger than their shoes, still filled with love and openness; no room for anything else back then.

As I pondered this while browning my ground turkey, I thought further back to a time way before when my siblings and I were free to play without parental supervision at a playground a few blocks from our house. One day I fell there and badly scraped my knee. My sister heard my cries, took a look at the blood trickling down my shin, and took my hand to escort me home. 

I don’t remember anything from that walk other than her warm hand and her soothing voice, bringing me assurance that I was going to be fine. When we arrived at our house, there was Mom waiting with bandaids, and a kiss for my boo boo. Sister Angel, Mommy Angel.

After that followed a rash of childhood injuries. A fractured arm after a jungle gym fall, a broken collar bone that happened after a tumble from a porch with no railings. Back then when one had injuries of such caliber, we returned to play the next day extending our casts proudly for signing. There was no fear in the lives of our friends’ parents because of threats of lawsuits, only a lifetime of  hilarious “remember the time” reminiscents.

When exactly did the comfort of the Angels get pushed back by the mighty fear of Smith, Jones and Associates? I wonder about that, remembering the fear at how I followed each step of my two babies, panicking at every stumble they made in the yard. 


Things are quiet in the yard as nature takes her annual rest. Even if I was physically able to make a snowman or snow angel by myself, the lack of white stuff and noticeably warm temperatures with rain prevent that. The deer, squirrels and Canada geese are active, and there are a pair of owls that I have yet to see, but their frequent evening conversations outside my bedroom window keep me entertained.

My indoor plants are happy, I have placed them in bigger pots to accommodate their growth and switched up their positions to introduce them to new friends. My Purple Heart and Kalanchoe bloom brightly in response. And my hearty angel-winged begonia, still bent out of shape from her pre-frost outdoor deck spot, demands frequent turns toward the light from her temporary spot on the floor in front of my sliding patio door. So full of life. Like Angels are.


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