Strawberries and Angels

Spotlight on the praying hands of a little girl. A veil and a white dress. Dangling is the cross upon her collarbones. She follows me into the next room. Joined by a friend. A sister maybe. Natural light now. Old wearing are the frames that capture her life never ending. They draw the shades to revert to past ways. TVs hung eastbound and hearts worse for wear. I am hanging on your sentences with knuckles turned white. The train station lights do not shine unto her hands clasped and her pendant does not echo the sun. My jaw is clenching. I wonder if her friend (sister?) feels the bitter sting of winter beneath her dress. A man at the train offers me fruit because you might as well enjoy life right? Flooding the streets are my bad memories as snow drifts and black ice. Yellow siding and the ominous print of a cat who has since passed. My hands are turning purple but these strawberries sure are good. He tells me his favorite artists: Sinatra, Martin, Lewis. I nod along. I never noticed his cane. Does he see the angel? Does he hear her pray on the stone bench next to me? Does he see the bright light between her collarbones and the artificial gleam of my unshed tears? I wonder if this scene will be framed. Shared strawberries could be as impactful as religion I think. I hope he finds shelter tonight. I hope strawberries guide faith upon his skin and feeling into his hip. I hope the angel offers her sun for warmth.

— ODH