Transcendence

Walking through the cemetery, we come upon a stone that commemorates the life of one who died quite young. Upon this stone, lofty and silent, stands an angel. The angel, expertly crafted in bronze, has been weathered through the years to a rich green patina, and streaks of black brindle her wings.

This otherworldly being lifts her face heavenward, wings and hands outspread in a gesture that is both inviting and exultant. Worn and weathered by the passage of the years, there is still no mistaking the expression of ecstatic serenity that transfigures the statue's features. Running your hands along the statue, you caress the expertly sculpted folds of the angel's robe. The angel is smooth and cool to the touch, and the weathered bronze, warned as it is by the sun, almost has the feel of living skin. An ineffable silence surrounds the grave of this long dead child. There is a hush, and it seeks as if the world around you is holding its breath. You can feel it, the promise of something trembling just on the edge of reality. Solemnly l, thoughtfully, you place a single rose at the foot of the grave. Then, like an angel, you raise your face in solemn expectation to the cloudless skies above.