Steam rises from my cupped hands. Sickle Moon dances on my black rooibos tea. Dirty, orange City Night Sky. Trying not to blink. What am I looking at?
On a slow, hot summer afternoon we watched our little prince flash from his favourite branch and smack down onto concrete.
Two weeks later, we were entertained to our fairy’s maiden flight. A miracle as she flew from a picnic branch to an inner-city emergency ward.
If angels are to carry our children down to earth, why should they be in
such a hurry?
What if our children grow to live the lives they were born to? What if we need every wound?
I go back in. Check in on our two Naughty Angelic Express passengers. My hands feel warm chests rise and fall, rise and fall. Subtle djembe drumming reassures my palms. At the window, Sickle Moon peek-a-boos from behind clouds. Next to me, a row of well-worn toy cars stands opposite scattered dolls. Sickle Moon disappears from the window.
Distant Dog barks moments before Midnight Train’s whistle.
Oh, how blessed my solitude, on one little condition – that I see you again.