Looking back, it was always clear. The crystal kind. You met an angel. An angel crossed your path. Flew over your head. Landed right in front of you. Took over your shape. The human kind. So you wouldn’t be suspicious. You don’t want to be the kind of person who believes in angels. You believe in mankind. In the human race.
I met quit a few of them. Angels. Dressed like humans. Shaped like humans. We all see what we want to see. We know what already fits in our heads. It’s like a Ikea cupboard. Adjustable. But not really. You can’t put a Billy closet on the moon. Or in your head. But you cán dream of it. You cán imagine angels visiting you. It is just as real. Reality is adjustable too, you know. It’s what you want it to be.
I guess the first one visited me in kindergarden. His name was Frank. Need I mention he always missed the annual school picture? He smelled like autumn leaves. His skin was very pale. Almost like a vampire. With freckles. And hazel hair. Very shiny. I loved him at first glance. He didn’t make fun of me when the handkerchief mountain underneath my chair collapsed. Or exploded. Or imploded. Or erupted. Green, slimy lava in the classroom. Two tomatoes on my face. Beneath my curly hair. Like Annie. It wás a hard knock life. No wonder an angel came to my rescue. Oh, Frank! My hazelnut man! My little heavenly vampire with moccasin shoes instead of wings.
I’m sure it was Frank who persuaded me to teach my fellow toddlers how to fly. They got in line, spread their arms, jumped up and down, flapped and whisked about, but they never lifted off, never left this world, not even for one foot. I did. When everyone was asleep. I told them I watched over them. Looked through their windows. Watched them dream. I felt like a black creature at night. A bat. A superhero avant la lettre. A slimy Annie during the day.
Like all angels, Frank disappeared just like that. His story was told. I swallowed him. Left him burning underneath my skin. Never mentioned him again. Not untill now. I even totally forgot about him. Untill Amy Winehouse made an album about him. That’s when he popped back into my head. Like a Billy closet. Full of candy and biscuits. And warm tea. And hazelnut chocolates. And handkerchiefs sprinkled with eau de cologne. 4711. Keeping my kitchen eruption & explosion proof.