Ashes to ashes

A fine layer of dust sat upon the angel’s shoulders and halo. The tiny pink flower held between her praying hands was nearly indistinguishable under that same gray, but her cheeky smile and playful shrugging shoulders made him grin. She didn’t get here by accident.

This area of the library was not often visited as it held aged children’s books, which had been donated by a local author, and as every lover a books knows, you can’t just throw a book in the garbage when no one wants to read it anymore. You must love and care for it as you would a brand new book, probably even more so than a brand new book. A story doesn’t cease to be a story just because no one reads it.

His thoughts of the book he had stopped here to retrieve vanished while he contemplated the angel. Four or so inches tall, creamy white porcelain, she sat hidden behind a shelf of books. How much time had elapsed since she was placed here, and why? He reached out to grasp her and received a shock, and as his hand jumped back, his mind wandered to the extraordinary. Was she telling him not to touch?

“Can you help me?” awoke him from his wanderings. The angel forgotten for the moment while he helped the teenage girl find history books about American Indians.

***

Janie’s life had been turned upside down in the past three years, and now the grief was a layer of fog she couldn’t seem to navigate. Her mother had been her closest friend, but she’d lost her the three years ago to a stroke. Janie’s mind would wander at times to unhappy places, and she had moments of feeling like a bad person, that she was warped, wishing her mother would have perished from her stroke, rather than witnessing her slow decline. This vibrant and active woman was subjected to a one-room home where she wasn’t even capable of using the bathroom independently. Even worse was Janie’s own selfishness, of which she prayed for forgiveness daily.

This was not how she wanted to remember her mother, her friend. Memories of years of laughter, traveling, tears, family gatherings, love, all weighed on her, as she had watched her mother wasting away in a recliner, watching reruns of Family Feud. She’d give anything to have her back the way she was, the one person in which she could confide anything, the one who would go the ends of the earth for her, not that she’d ask it.

And now that she was gone to heaven, she didn’t know how she was supposed to feel. Grief was crying, lying in bed for days, but that wasn’t how she felt. Was it relief? She couldn’t even admit that to herself. Memories flooded her of having to repeat stories over and over, as her mother sat nodding her head trying to keep the story line. The truth was, she’d been grieving all that time, as she’d been told grief was not just about death, but about a loss. She had lost the mother she knew a long time ago.

Going through dresser drawers was an exercise in depression. How was she supposed to pack up all her mother’s belongings into black plastic bags just days after she had died? It felt like disposing of her. Her assisted living space had to be cleaned out by Sunday night, and she was numb to the thought of driving these bags to a donation center. Donating, she knew they would go to good use, but her mother could no longer get from use them.

Closing the drawer, Janie concentrated on the tops of furniture instead. Her mother had loved to decorate for every season; wreaths on the door, figurines, stuffed animals, and especially remnants of her Christian life. She was a faith-filled woman and she showed it in her generosity as well as her decorating. Bible quotes and crosses hung in the room, while angels watched over her from every surface.

Shrugging shoulders and a cheeky smile made her grin. It had been her favorite of all her mother’s angels. The mischievous one, she always thought, reminding her of the story she had been read as a child, The Littlest Angel. A grin turned to tears, tears of remembering. How would she ever get through this and throw anything away?

***

Sitting down again at his computer at the information desk, he spied the flashing red on his call waiting at the same time seeing the note he wrote on the blue post it. He had left the desk to find a book for the person on the phone, only to be distracted by the shocking angel and American Indians. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long. Can I call you back when we’re not so busy?” he lied to the woman on the other end.

A childish part of him worried that he was too late and someone had found the angel before he had a chance to solve the mystery of where it had come from. He said a silent prayer she would still be waiting for him, but she greeted him with the same mischievous smile and grubby clothes. Shaking his head at the thought that anyone would wander to this section for a book, the staff liked to call it the ancient runes.

This time as he reached for it, no shock was felt. He held it up and blew some of her griminess off and he noticed two things in particular about this cherub. She was more beautiful than he had first seen, like her sins were washed away. Also, she had letters and numbers printed in black ink on the bottom. Susan Anderson, 4-16-1999.

A birthday? Deceased? The name was common and it might be difficult to figure out who she was, but was that really his calling? Was the angel there so someone would find her, or was she there in that hidey spot so that no one would find her? He placed her gently back on the shelf and decided to contemplate for a few days. He grabbed the book he needed and rearranged the shelf so as to keep her secret.

***

The phone call was a bit surreal. She recalled her mother’s blond wavy hair and pale blue eyes. How she had one dimple just like her, and a dimple on each shoulder. She used to tell her it looked like her shoulders were smiling. Petite in stature with a perpetual smile. Now, she was reduced down to fit in a silver urn, all features gone. Would she remember how her mom had smiled?

The urn sat on her dining room table, surrounded by all the angel figurines. Heaven in miniature version. “What am I going to do with you?” she asked the cheeky angel. A shock was her answer as she went to grab it. Nostalgia pulled at her and she felt a smile on her lips for the first time in months. This was a journey this grief thing. You couldn’t solve it or move past it or quicken it. You had to move through it, one step at a time. Reaching for the angel again she knew her next step.

She knocked the urn and in her haste to straighten it, it fell over and dumped dust all over the angels. Oh hell, she thought, and laughed at herself as she coughed and hacked at the debris filling her mouth. Her mother with the angels, just where she imagined her to be.

Books had always been something they had in common. Janie and her mom belonged to a book club for over 20 years, with some of their closest and dear friends.  Shelves in both of their homes bursting with fiction they liked to share back and forth. Evenings filled with wine and good food once a month, and shared lives with friends; the disappointments, celebrations and a little gossip mixed in with the book club questions. The library seemed like a perfect place to honor her mom. Janie wrapped the angel in a hand towel and placed her in her purse.

She pretended to be interested in several books, glancing at titles, but really she was trying to find the perfect spot to hide her. Janie walked the aisles waiting for people to leave. She felt like a thief, hiding her business. Were there any cameras watching her act sketchy and skiddish?

Old children’s books caught her eye, just down the way from the book club bags. Janie rearranged the shelf to fit her in where she hopefully would never be found, but as she stood there she said a silent prayer that if found, no one would disturb the littlest angel. Pushing the books back together she watched the angel get smaller until she was gone. There. It felt like closure. She bowed her head and walked away. A tear rolling down her cheek but a smile on her face.

***

Seeing his reflection in the glass doors, he paused. It was one of those moments when you know something is not right, but a split second later it makes sense, and you laugh at yourself. The gray smudge on his head was not a bruise, but a reminder that he came from ashes and to ashes he would return. Ash Wednesday services had just ended and it was time for his shift at the library.

He smirked and walked looking down at the floor, his feet taking him past the desk and to a shelf with a hidden angel. He hadn’t thought of her in weeks. The ashes had awoken his memory. He wondered if she was still there. Pulling aside the children’s books he glimpsed that lovely smile and the ashy pallor. Leaving her alone, he would keep her secret. Susan Anderson, loved in the past, present and future.