by Alyson Faye
Running for the school bus with Monday morning hair and
bad breath, I trip and fall, skinning my knees. I watch the bus dwindle in the
distance. Weak winter sunlight glints on something silver under the privet
hedge.
Probably chewing gum foil, I think but intrigued I crawl
under the twigs to grab it.
Above me, a stone angel looms, feet earthed firmly to the
gravestone slab; one of many in St Peter’s Churchyard. “Ma’s local” as me and
Dad like to joke. Mum doesn’t laugh with us though.
The silver stuff isn’t foil. Instead my fingers touch soft
gauze; the sunlight refracting off the
woven silver threads. It is a beautiful piece of fabric. I imagine
fairies weaving it on tiny looms.
“All dreams you are. No common sense,” Mum’s always saying.
A deep voice startles
me, “That’s a piece of ‘Angel’s Wing’ you’ve got there, love.”
It is as if the stone angel has spoken. I jerk upright.
Startled and wide-eyed. It’s only Bob, the church caretaker and handyman. He is
perched on the edge of the angel’s tomb, eating his sandwiches. Tuna, by the
smell wafting over the wall.
“What?” I gawp at him.
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