I’m so glad I’m not an angel mom! Once, many years ago I arrived into a creeping thistle field and the sun was shining like one hundred spears upon my back. I took of my shoes like any other human and ran over the weeds until my feet bled. I bit my tongue and lips to feel less pain. They are also souls those thorny flowers I didn’t have the heart to crush them. I remember how father used to kill the caterpillars in spring when they were flooding our house’s walls. I felt disgust and pity. Don’t they all say that all God’s creatures have their souls?
Mother, you are asleep and I feel that pain on my right side. Father also felt it before passing away. He said I was like a saint and I cried, I had no one to tell my stories to. But as long as you are sleeping I can tell to you. Everybody hates saints; they backbite them and then kneel in front of the icons after their death. They say that saints are helpful, mediating their way towards God’s will… What if Prometheus was also a saint? The legendary Greek hero. After all he bought something useful to the humans, above God’s will. And he felt pain on the right too.
Everyone knows stories about martyrs…They sink in murky waters and their saint auras become thinner and thinner, like in paintings about them, still floating. It ought to be hard to live in the Romantic era: too many dreams, untainted virgins slaughtered with cruelty, demons, suckling infants dying of cold and starvation. I always preferred clear skies to storm clouds. But I admit that all the others tell the truth in their works of art; each of us climbs and descends the same steps, either sleeping on a sack with money or hiccuping because of poverty.
It is so good I did not become an angel, mom! Some of us become and then you can see them floating over colored small clouds in paintings or bearing golden wings in palaces’ corner moldings. Sometimes they rise from their tombs, white and big, like Giselle from that ballet at the Opera. The spectators clap on and on, opening their hand fans of young and old ladies. On the other side the common people yell with exaltation in open arenas, the same way they were eager to watch in ancient times the crucifixion of St. Peter, the martyrdom of St, Sebastian, or St Katherine tied to a rolling spiked wheel. Everyone has his story. On one side the angels with the rich, on the other side the saints with the poor. It is not good in both places.
I had to believe that tomorrow isn’t a day that comes only after a saint’s long lasting waiting. I am a human being, a sinless creature, but now I scream that even dead wake up: I am not a saint and I will never bring salvation to anyone! And if I think about angels, God bless them! Which thing is the saddest, mom? Who can rejoice, mom?