Angel so bad
A song by True Mountain Laurel I’ve had on repeat today, and perhaps an appropriate title for what follows
The first boy who told me he loved me also said he could hear angels speaking to him.
We predictably met at a non-denominational church in the Valley, and during worship, at the start of every Sunday, I’d catch his eye while helping the younger children paint at their easels. They tried to conjure up images of God in watercolor, and seeing that most of them were no older than eight, God often took on a passing resemblance to their fathers.
We both helped out in the kitchens afterwards, unwrapping leftovers women brought from home in cheap Tupperware and mini lemon drop cakes Darby made. At that age, any touch felt wrong. Still, it was something to file away in the crinkled pages of a journal your parents would someday stumble upon and read long after you’d moved out.
His hands always managed to find mine back then, brushing as we laid out dishes, knocking into my knuckles as I balanced plates in the small sink.
I’m not sure what about him interested me, now that I’m looking back. I often struggle to see the good in people I once cared for. They fade and warp in memory, lose their dimensions until they fall flat as paper. Now, when I think of this boy, all I really remember is sandy blond hair, The Phantom of the Opera, and the voices of angels.
He told me he loved me under a blanket at the front of a bus, my sister seated two rows behind us. We’d just finished a trip up north with our youth group, where we’d spent the weekend tripping over willow tree roots while playing badminton and exploring unmarked caves.
In the dark, we walked alone. He took my hand when he thought no one was watching. I borrowed his jacket under the stalactites.
He’d told me about the angels on the first night.
“My mom can do it too,” he murmured, sitting up straight on my bed. We weren’t alone; our younger siblings were on the next cot over, painting their nails blue and listening in on our conversation. “Speak with them.”
Even then, I didn’t believe. I wouldn’t admit it for years. “What are they like?”
His eyes were glossy. “They’re beautiful.”
The days melted by, butter in a hot pan. I lied through my teeth when asked about the Lord and the ways I saw Him working in my life, afraid I’d reveal something was wrong with me. How can you look into the eyes of His most devout, and tell them you were alone? That, for some reason, He didn’t want to speak to you?
The sarape was scratchy against my hair when he pulled it over us. At first, I thought it was another silly game. Something to pass the time.
“I have a secret.”
“Is it a good one?”
“I think so.”
I paused. “Maybe you should keep it.”
He didn’t. “I love you, Mia.”
“What?”
He repeated himself just as the bus jolted, a pothole momentarily swallowing up the left tires. I said nothing and pulled the blanket down around us, squinting into the sudden sun. I let him hold my hand again, to temper the silence. He drew circles into my skin. I tried not to vomit.
I’m not sure what love really is, just as I’m not sure an old man is watching from the clouds. Where I’ve landed is a problematic middle point — a choking uncertainty.
I’ve spoken at length with friends about love and religion. Every time we slip into those conversations, near the end of a night pretending we weren’t dying to throw back the shutters and riffle through the cabinets of our old souls, it feels nice. Warm.
My friends and I do not agree on certain things, and I’m sure that’s fine. They’ll resolve themselves with time. The biggest difference is that I do not believe there is one single person out in the world I am meant to spend my life with.
This, I know, directly contrasts the famous notion of soulmates presented in Plato’s Symposium, in which humans are cleaved in half by Zeus and spend their short lives seeking the right fit, walking through the desolate until they are whole again.
Everyone I know is more certain than I am. In stiff spines and dry hands, they hold the line. There’s an element of faith in love, the same kind that’s necessary for the pursuit of God and all things holy. Maybe that’s what’s missing in me.
Things haven’t improved since the first boy. I can’t be told “I love you” without asking why. I still can’t hear the angels.
So beautiful and real 😘🌹💕