If I did believe in angels, I might wonder where they live. I might think of how the sky so cold could never be the place.
All I ever see up there above are clouds and grey, rolling blue and lonely as they coat the ground in shadows, shedding tears that fill up oceans with water we can never drink.
When I look up through the falling rain, the baffled aggregate of discarded pieces like the muddied constellation of a hero no one knew, and I can’t see past that cold and leaden screen from which it falls, I can’t help but think there’s nothing up beyond but empty space. And that’s no space for angels, so they must be somewhere else.
How could they breath in air so thin, so separate from the earth and arid, so far removed from who they were and those they used to love?
But then I look around me and I’m even less convinced. It would never do, this place so barren despite the chronic storms. It’s far too full of darkened corners pitched behind the glare of fabricated light. Too many alleys cut this place and in their narrow cavities so many people crowd. There’s scarcely room amid the sour notes for us to breathe, and the angels I’d like there to be would take up so much more.
So I just don’t think that they can be.
And I’m content with that, content to watch from behind this brittle window in my room as raindrops pelt the sagging leaves, content to stare between the the drips that trail down the glass like empty worms and pool up on the sill.
But as I watch through the yellow light pouring from a lamp not far away, I see a single drop of rain move slowly through its cast, picking up its amber tint and flashing as it falls. A single one among them all that seems to fall more slowly than the rest, steeping in the light and holding almost still, as if the moments cease and all there is is her and I, an angel in a drop of rain that passed before me in a glance fell away.