Saturday 1 December 2018

Angel’s Wing

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.

“I’ve got a box full of that Angel’s Wing. Always finding it in the graveyard.” 

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