When Angels Walk Among Us

Will we know when they appear? — The Lark’s poetry competition — runner-up poem

Once I had a chance to help an angel.

Not a bright, beatific one whose shining light overpowered my eyes but a bedraggled, lonely angel struggling through the thorny underbrush at the woodland edge of my yard.

I heard her calling like a baffled child so I rushed outside to find her. Such a dainty cat with long brindled fur briar-tangled, dirty, and hunger-thin pleading to be rescued and held.

I hurried to her with a coaxing smile, made murmuring sounds to calm her fears she lurched towards me on shaky legs showing not wariness but relief. She had known love before.

With gentleness I knelt beside her picked her up and held her close — then dropped her quickly with a gasp — for swarming through her muddied coat a legion of fleas and beetles caroused.

Horrified I stumbled away back to the safety of my antiseptic walls, retched over the sink as I recalled the squirming lives stuck like burrs feasting amid her matted fur.

Then an icy wave of shame struck my face and stung my eyes berating me for my cowardice urging me to show tenderness for the hapless one I had left behind.

Mere moments, disguised as eternity, passed. Myself once more, I rushed outside vowing to rescue the little cat, cradle her and comfort her and make my house her home.

With tender words I pleaded and cajoled. Too late. My angel was gone. No doubt, distressed, she had set out to find a woman more loving than the squeamish one who had dropped her and left her behind.

Once I had a chance to help an angel.

I failed her, and I do not forgive myself for that. But somehow I believe she has forgiven me, even though I picked her up only to toss her aside. Angels are like that. Compassionate and wise, whether we recognize them or not.