He came in my door in a blue work shirt and jeans.
He sat in the old Stickley Mission chair.
Light from the door illuminated the silver in his thick hair.
And then he had wings.
What did he say?
I don’t know, because for minutes I was entranced.
By the white wings that sat so comfortably on his shoulders.
It was an old white shawl I had thrown over the back of the chair, and the posts of the wooden chair lifted it gracefully, the fringe hanging down in the points of feathers.
I have a guardian angel.