Children and the elderly understand angels

A baby was born. It’s beautiful. I’ve waited a long time for it. In its blue eyes, I read a pleas for help. I  sit by the crib and hold its hand. So it won’t be afraid. I will show it light and darkness, explain the joy in small things. I will separate the important from the trivial. I am its angel.

We talk often. It asks many questions. 

“Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? Does fate exist? How much time do I have?” 

It smiles when we talk about love, tenderness, and fragility. It cries when I mention pain, sorrow, and death. It looks at me in surprise when I speak of foolishness, malice, and envy. It shouts wise words at its parents, pointing to important things with a tiny finger. It doesn’t know they don’t understand. I  haven’t told it. I’d have to explain that one day it, too, won’t understand the language of angels.

It gazes dreamily beyond the horizon. I let it be. I know it’s thinking about how to make the world a  better place.

It grows quickly, no longer crawling, trying to stand. I help it. On the other side, its mother holds it to prevent a fall. It no longer needs me. I’ve told it everything. Its mother, its next angel, will care for it. She will be there forever, selflessly, in good times and bad. I know this. That’s what angels do.

I miss it. I watch from within stories and dreams. It’s growing into a beautiful person. I say goodbye with a gentle kiss through its mother’s touch.

My baby has grown up. I know little about it now. I don’t see it. It doesn’t read fairy tales, it has stopped dreaming. It doesn’t remember me. It no longer finds joy in small things. I hear it, though. It’s fine, talking with its mother.

Something has happened. It calls me in dreams. The mother has gone. I am there with it. I support it so it won’t fall. I whisper words of comfort, even though I know it doesn’t fully understand. I soothe it with memories of its mother. When it can’t go on, I carry it.

My baby has grown old. Dreamily, it gazes beyond the horizon. I know it’s wondering why the world isn’t better. It is beginning to understand the language of angels. It recognizes me. We talk, reminiscing about its life. It asks many questions. 

“Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? Does fate exist? How much time do I have?” 

I point to the footprints it leaves behind. 

“I understand now!” it exclaims joyfully.

It whispers wise words to its children and grandchildren. With a trembling hand, it points out what matters. It doesn’t know they don’t understand. I haven’t told it. I’d have to say that its time has come. I am preparing it for the journey. I sit by its bedside and hold its hand. So it won’t be afraid...