Death of a Poet

It was a slow day in Hell, and Lucifer needed a soul. He noticed that St. Peter was looking a little confused, so he made his way to the pearly gates. St. Peter was looking down on an old man nearing his last day.

“Why the sad face?” asked Lucifer.

“That man there has tried so hard to be good and get into heaven, yet he might not. He has always had such good intentions but always came up short.”

“I remember him,” said Lucifer, smiling. “He had such potential but life got in his way. I have a place specifically for such people.”

“He still has a few minutes,” said Peter. “Miracles do happen now and then.”

The old man awoke in his tiny room as the world around him slept. Breathing was difficult and painful. A computer monitor lit the room with a bright glow, illuminating the walls covered with bits of paper—notes about pieces of poetry and thoughts on life. A big, often-used, comfy chair sat in front of the monitor. A small lamp that looked like a Coke bottle sat on a bedside table, though he left it off. The window behind his bed told him it was still night, heading towards early morning. He heard the cries and car horns of a few lost souls still out, perhaps heading home or to work early.

It was painful to sit up, but he did. He had one more thing to do, one more task. He struggled to his big, comfy chair, falling into it with a humph. He opened his poetry page. On it was a picture of a beautiful Mexican woman, his muse, his reason for writing. She had breathed new life into him not so long ago. She spoke words that reminded him of himself in his youth and the man he had wanted to be. She told him it was not too late to try. So he did.

He never met her but nonetheless loved her with a love that was not quite love and yet more than love. An unspoken admiration. A reason to try. He had written her name over and over again, in the style of a poem. It would have been the first page of his book of poetry had he just had a little more time. He touched the screen lovingly. He hit send. His chest exploded with pain.

“Celia,” he said with his last inhale. “Celia,” he said as he exhaled.

And then he was silent.

Celia opened her email as she did every day. She opened the first DM. ‘The Book of Celia’ was the title. Curious, she opened it. She read and she laughed, and she read and she cried.

“Oh my God,” she said to herself, her hand touching her chest.

Lucifer was happy. “I will collect that soul right now.”

“Not so fast,” said St. Peter.

“Come on, I don’t have time for this. He wrote a poem. Whoop-de-doo.”

“Shhhh.” St. Peter put a finger to Lucifer’s lips. “He wrote a lot of poems. Listen. Look.”

Celia, with tears, touched her nose. “—just a little lip boop,” she read—and smiled.

“That young woman is one of our angels, although she does not know it yet. She is learning to love herself and her body bits a little bit more. She is going to need all of that self-confidence soon.”

The old man rose from his comfy chair feeling spritely and without pain. Behind him was a light. He walked to it, through it, and to the Pearly Gates. He barely noticed the scowling Lucifer as he passed. Trumpets sounded his arrival as St. Peter opened the gates, gesturing grandly, allowing the old man to enter. The old man paused for one brief moment before he took his final step. He looked back at his muse.

“Celia,” he said as he entered the kingdom of heaven. “I am home.”

“Hello, Jack. Are you enjoying your stay here?”

“I am, but my name is Steve. I am new here—who are you?”

“Of course, introductions first. I am Stacey, and I am God’s right-hand woman, you might say. I do all the organizing and bookkeeping and such. The details, you know. The universe is a big place, and God does not want to be everywhere all at once anymore. So, Jack, how long have you been here?”

“I have been here a very short time now, and my name is Steve. Why do you keep calling me Jack? Jack was my internet persona and the name of my cat.”

“Mm-hmm. That is odd. I have you down as Jack. We already have a Steve here; he makes the animals. You are more like a Jack than a Steve anyway.”

“Are you telling me that in all the history of man, only one other Steve made it into heaven?”

“No, no, of course not. But we already have a special little angel named Steve, so... God works in mysterious ways. Right, Jack?”

“Okay, fine. I am Jack now. What was it that you needed me for?”

“To the point. I like that in an angel. I will reciprocate in kind. You applied to be an angel with a job, so we found you a job. You are new here, so we didn’t want to challenge you too much on your first assignment. You remember that girl you liked? Your muse?”

“Of course, Celia. She is okay, right? Not in any trouble?”

“That girl—in trouble? Trouble gets in trouble when she has troubles. No, she is fine. And your new job is to make sure she stays that way. You will be her guardian angel starting right now. Here is your handbook. Study it well.”

“What do I do then, again please?”

“You watch. If a car is about to hit her, you pop down and push her out of the way. You catch her when she falls and keep the creepy people away. Like that. Easy peasy.”

“Do I get a halo? Wings?”

“Not yet. You should be fine.”

“Should be? What if I mess it up? I have messed up so many things before.”

“Jack, just be you. You loved her, right? Just go with that. Love, when practiced selflessly, is a potent thing. Let that be your guide. I will leave you to it,” Stacey said as she walked away.

“But I am not Jack,” said Jack after her, but she had already left. He watched as Celia prepared herself for her day. She had a big day in front of her—a third date with Diego.

This could be the one, she thought. She dropped her robe as she stepped into the shower. Jack stumbled as he looked away.

“But I am not Jack,” he thought as he picked himself up. Without conscious thought, he moved the soap from under Celia's foot and smiled.

“Maybe I can do this,” he whispered to himself, watching her day unfold.