Heaven’s Gate

These things sometimes happen. The words were cold, impersonal.  Intended to be comfort? Condolence? It didn’t matter. The sound was little more than the haunting incantation of a grim reaper draped in a white lab coat, Death with a professional bedside manner.  The teenaged girl was beside her, reaching for the woman’s arm even before she began to fall, a role reversal of the scene they’d undoubtedly played out countless times throughout her young lifetime. The woman wailed into the younger’s arm, clutching her as though she too might slide into Death’s pockets, a bonus soul to add to his bounties tonight. The young woman–presumably the daughter–was stone, her face to her arms, the rock that her mother needed. I looked away, guilty because I couldn’t grieve with them.

 

Angels, observers

Ghosts float in and out of rooms

Lost souls or envoys