Angels of the East

Angels of the East

    Dreams come like a light in the darkness. I am back in my hometown in Mississippi under my grandparent’s roof with the sun sinking with the delicacy of nocturnal lovers on a path to heaven. But the shards of daylight have not yet succumbed to the shades of night. And so the news comes from the hospital of my grandpa’s passing.
     The daughter of one of grandpa’s tenants stands watch over the burning clouds from within the carapace of the house. The family of Muslims has arrived from the abode they rented from my grandpa. They are here to properly usher grandpa into the paradise that lies beyond the sigh of angels. And so the patriarch instructs me to hold a mirror to reflect his daughter who is the embodiment of the cosmic feminine. In turn, she lifts a looking glass to mirror my visage in a dance of light and shadows.
     She ascends a rise into the neighbor’s backyard. She is bathed in the luminescence of the final throes of the dipping sun whose light gathers around her like a shawl of gold as she welcomes my grandpa home. With her mirror, she bundles the sun into a bushel of light so bright that its radiance is all I see in the trembling moment of awareness.
     The ritual concludes with us gathered together in the impending shadows of night. The father sits on the ground with his wife and progeny listening. He addresses me, “My daughter looks up to you. She chose you as her partner in the ritual for your grandfather’s spirit to fly. She is about to graduate with a B.A. in linguistics. If you would be so kind she would welcome you as her tutor since you are trained in this field. But only when you have settled down in your new home.”
     I consider the dating prospect with his beautiful daughter which is most enticing.
      “I am honored, both by her admiration of me and her seeking me as her mentor. Send her and I will gladly help to the limit of my ability.”
     The Dad replies, “She is also in need of a husband. But such matters can wait. And love needs time to blossom into the flower of marriage. I hear you are a published writer. Where can I find your books as I am eager to read them?”
     Suddenly I get lock jaw. He will see my irreverent stories and so I am busted. I say, “Well how can I say this? One of my stories is about a Muslim woman who wants to burn her hijab.”
     He replies, “American women wanted to burn their bras. Every culture has its free thinkers. The hijab only came about in the seventies and wasn’t around back in the Prophet Muhammad’s day. As long as no one is burning a Quran we are cool. So welcome to our family.” I breathe a sigh of relief.
     The daughter reaches out to hold my hand. She says, “Father, my conversation with this young man is a river in need of solitude.”
     She leads me to the grass where she ushered grandpa to the isle of the blest. “The strangeness of the hours is at hand. I feel a familiarity with you that bears more than mere lineage. Please tell me you feel the same affinity with me.”
     “I would be lying if I denied it. Marsha my Elysian poppy, our love cycle has come full circle.”
     “Listen, we don’t have to talk this pseudo-medieval dialect for knights and ladies. You don’t have to prove you’re my troubadour. Having known you for two thousand years I doubt you could carry a tune. Serenade me with a dozen red roses and I’ll feel well romanced.”
     “Well, I don’t have any roses on hand. Would a kiss suffice?”
     “You bet your bottom dollar it would. Now kiss me before my lipstick gets dry.”