Three full moons after your death on a Sunday at twelve noon, Florence called to ask my permission to send three angels to our house who were guaranteed to grant me three wishes. With these angels, she herself had been ruthless, had required them to ax every anxious thought from her brain, demanded that none should ever return; she asked for a baby, a womb willing to carry the baby, a man willing to father the baby.

Could they be latchkey angels? I asked, since I knew I'd be very busy that day stirring my cauldron on stage as Shaman of Cups, high priestess of Tarot, and the boiling contents would be viscous, and it would take all my strength to stir. Florence made it clear: The angels are not permitted to unlock doors themselves. You must not only be home when they arrive, but you'll need to prepare, place your three wishes inside an envelope along with a list of names of ten people to whom the angels will fly for the next ten Sundays. And when the clock strikes noon, you must trust they have arrived, say a welcome prayer, and light a special candle that will burn for seven days and nights.

It's been four full moons since that Sunday and I haven't had the heart to tell Florence I just couldn't let them in. Then I'd have to reveal to her how I am about company, how we both were, how on purpose, we never had a spare bed for anyone. And besides, I couldn't bear to make wishes that might not come true, or ones that might come true. What reason, then, would I have for any future unhappiness?

Besides, you know Mother taught me never to leave a candle burning any place but the shower. And if I put the flame in the shower for seven days and nights, then how would I manage a morning without feeling your fingers lather the creamy purple shampoo into my hair. I can't tell her you would never have tolerated the smell of the purple shampoo. I can't tell her that though I live alone now, the house is way too crowded.

Back to Contents