I shared a few more classes with the angel during our last two years of undergrad, but we never grew closer than acquaintances, our brief chats chiefly academic. Though I'd disperse many of the sentiments he shared with me that night—citationless and nonchalant like a closeted apostle—I never recounted the actual circumstances of our meeting to anyone, not even Caleb and Lilli. It wasn't that it felt private—a word that, between the three of us, meant admittedly little—so much as it felt unremarkable.
Another earth-angel enrolled at the school our senior year, and sometimes I would see the boy in the red down jacket—he still wore it in winter, with two special modifications—and this new fledgling walking or eating together, his wings large and glossy compared to the other's diminutive, downy pair. I grew so accustomed to the sight that sometimes I wouldn't see him until he waved.
I have often wondered how many other nosy naysayers the angel spoke with in the library bathroom late at night, perhaps to the discomfort of his bladder. I wonder how many this younger angel may be called upon to counsel, trading one unwanted burden for another. It hardly seems fair, but things rarely are between angels and we slow-changing men. You can learn a lot through study, but some things, I think, we need to hear from the source.
We are lucky, those of us who must only choose to listen.
YOU ARE READING
Transfiguration
Short StoryA mysterious boy who never takes off his jacket. A temple where men talk directly to angels. An extremely boring college economics course. Curiosity gives way to confusion as our nameless, genderless narrator learns the reason behind their classmate...
