I Woke Up as Angel

And that felt vaguely familiar

One morning I woke up as angel. Naturally, I didn’t know at first that I was an angel, only that things were different.

As I opened my eyes I knew it was birdsong had woken me. Extra nice bird song. I usually didn’t hear it first thing, for I wake up so early, but this morning, yes, birdsong, lovely, lifted me out of my slumber and roused me to my senses.

And the pillow was so soft. Much softer than the night before. Odd that.

My kitchen is so small I call it a galley. In fact, I think of my cabin as a boat. But was my galley larger this morning? I looked once, twice, thrice before I had to conclude — boldly bucking logic — it was larger. Not longer, no, but wider. This morning it was a full step between sink and stove rather than the three-quarters of one I was used to and had lived with for the last ten years. And the overhead fluorescent, yes, a little brighter this morning.

The tea a little greener.

The grapefruit a little grapefruitier as it explodes in my mouth, that sweet little drink — tastebud orgasms.

The morning a little morninger.

Things were adding up, but to what I couldn’t tell.

Nathaniel was nudging Gabriel in his angelic ribs. “He’s waking up.”

Gabriel, preening his wings, did not appreciate the interruption and chose to ignore his brother angel.

Which called for a second nudge, figured Nathaniel, soon delivered.

“What?” Gabriel refolded his right wing just so and turned to Nathaniel.

“He’s waking up,” said Nathaniel, pointing in the direction of my little boat slash cabin.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, look at him. Everything done so cut-glass carefully this morning. Cleaning his teapot extra well, holding it up to the light to catch any remaining spots. Rinsing carefully. And look at him drying the pot. Lovingly, as if it were his greatest treasure.”

“It might be, the amount of green tea that goes down that gullet of his every day.”

“Cynicism is not very angelic, Gabriel. Nor becoming.”

“I’m just stating the obvious. How many pots does he brew each day?”

Nathaniel furrowed his angelic brow and counted. “Good point.”

Then nothing more was said for so long that Gabriel assumed the conversation was over and done with and thus re-unfolded his right wing and continued his pruning, sprucing each feather just so.

Nathaniel kept a close eye on the once-up-a-distant-time angel down there in my cabin, looking for other signs of stirring memory, or broadening awareness. Of awakening.

Gabriel finished pruning his right wing, but before going on to his left, looked over at Nathaniel, so intent on the earth below.

More out of politeness than curiosity, Gabriel asked his brother, “How long has he been down there?”

Nathaniel, as if stirred from a dream, looked over at Gabriel and then relistened to the question in his mind. “Close to three thousand years,” he said.

“That is a long time,” said Gabriel.

“Longer than most.”

“And you don’t think he’ll need rescue?”

“I think he’s going to make it out on his own. That’s what I was trying to show you.”

“He’d be one of the first.”

“Yes, he’d be one of the few.”

Gabriel, a little curious now, took another peek at the human below, now walking along the Pacific Ocean shore, looking up at the gulls and the crows and, farther out over the water, the pelicans.

My eyesight is going by the way of the Dodo. So there’s no way I can tell whether this large crow is a large crow or a small raven. Judging by his flight behavior though, gliding like this, almost gulling it, on stretched wings. That is not the way of crows, that’s the way of ravens.

“Raven,” said the raven.

This should have surprised me, even shocked me, but it did neither. For some reason, I thought back on my unusually soft pillow and slightly larger kitchen and accepted this, admittedly, weirder anomaly as par for this strange morning’s course.

“That’s what I thought,” I answered.

“Good for you,” said the raven gliding away and soon beyond the reach of weak eyes, strong glasses notwithstanding.

The wind was picking up, especially farther out. Spindrift tearing itself loose from the waves and dancing through the air. Spectacularly.

The pelicans, cleverly negotiating the capricious wind appeared like airborne wizards — my favorite fliers. Now I get the feeling that they’re just showing off, knowing that I look. Odd that.

I look out at Castle Rock, home to thousands of seabirds and a large settlement of seals and I get the sense, though this is by no means certain — I mean I can’t very well pace it off to prove anything — that the little island is a little farther away from America and by the same footage closer to Japan this morning.

Is the water bluer?

Is the sky skyier?

A bald eagle. Up there. Even my weak eyes can tell, but then, as I notice with some clarity individual white feathers on this giant bird’s head, with a shiver I realize that I’m not seeing this bird with my Dodo-visiting eyes, I’m just seeing — somehow. Strangest thing yet, this morning.

As if realizing he is being examined — no, there’s no “as if” about this, he knows — the bird circles back and loses altitude as he approaches me, gliding. “What’re you looking at?” Not friendly.

“Sorry.”

With two quick apology-not-accepted beats of giant wings, the eagle puffed his way up into altitude again. Offended. Clearly.

“I said I’m sorry.”

I must admit I felt thoroughly ignored. Unpleasantly so. Oh, well.

There is a seal argument underway out on Castle Rock. The various honks and yelps out there sound to me like a vocal generation gap. Fathers telling sons and daughters what seal manners are about, who in turn, as loudly, share their opinions of being told what to do and how to behave.

Now Castle Rock appears closer than before. Then I realize that the rock has not moved, I have — closer, higher. The better to hear and see I gather.

But how?

There must be hundreds down there, some huge, some what I would consider seal-sized, and a small army of pups as well. There is no Robert’s Rules of Order in effect here. It’s as loud as you can for as long as you can and it’s not pretty. Not to my ears anyway.

Ears?

No, this strange morning does not seem to believe in ears, for here I hover, eye-less and ear-less but nonetheless perceiving very well both colors and shapes and sounds and a hundred seal tones-of-voice.

The elders are huffing and puffing and despairing amongst themselves at the audacity of youth — conveniently parking their own youthful behavior well behind and beyond the wall of things best forgotten. No shame at all nowadays. Just look at them. Look at them. Listen to them.

Well, I stop doing that. Instead, I look up to see if I can spot the eagle now, but no such luck. One offended bird.

Back in my body now — it was not unlike sliding down a chute — and turning around to head back home to my little cabin I realize that I’ve had the strong wind in my back most of this outward one-mile leg, and now I’m facing it square on heading back. I pull up and secure my hood over my knitted cap. I am a huge fan of warm ears.

I find the wind, dry and not too cold, very pleasant, though at certain gusts I’m at risk of bowling over backward. Tricky this. Compensate too much at the wrong time and I’m on my nose. Keeps me on my toes, this wind.

I round a corner and there’s my little brown cabin, nestled among still-growing-like-well-fed teenagers trees. Best boat in town. I am lucky to have found it, and luckier still to afford it. And is it not a little larger, a little browner, a little cabinier this morning?

Nathaniel and Gabriel both follow him now. Gabriel, despite himself, is growing more and more interested in this human. Is he really going to wake up this morning? On his own?

“You did see that, right?” says Nathaniel. “He blossomed out of his flesh and hovered over the seals.”

“I saw,” said Gabriel. “But he returned soon enough.”

“I know. When ships like these lose their anchors, they will rush back to ground and slam all doors shut.”

“I don’t think he slammed all doors shut,” said Gabriel.

“Neither do I,” said Nathaniel.”

“How will you know when he’s fully awake?” wondered Gabriel. This was not his field of expertise but was indeed Nathaniel’s domain.

“One way of telling is when he sits down beside us and says ‘Good Morning. How have you been?’”

Gabriel nodded. “Yes, of course. Yes. But before that, perhaps not so obvious?”

“When he starts laughing and laughing and, as some do, dance.”

“I see. And you think today is the day?”

“Not sure. I’ve seen some fall back asleep even after greater signs, greater openings.”

“Ah. So this is a time for prayer?”

“Well, that’s the one thing we must not do. Just like the chrysalis, he has to make it out on his own, all on his own, or his wings will be too weak to sustain flight.”

“I see. So no giving a hand?”

“No, not even the smallest.”

© Wolfstuff