My Sister the Angel

I am not a religious person; I haven't been to church except for weddings in more than fifty years even though I had a pretty standard Roman Catholic upbringing that included a trip to Rome when I was about four years old. More for cultural and anthropological reasons than religious ones,  I have some religious iconography in my house. This is not limited to Catholic or even Christian art since I have a bust of Athena, a Peruvian medicine man's rattle, and other non-Christian items. So why is this post titled "My Sister the Angel?"

The third anniversary of my sister's death was four days ago so she has been on my mind. Truth to tell she is on my mind regularly but not so much in a mournful way. What happened right after her death is the story I am going to tell and it can be taken at face value or in any way you wish to construe it. Pamela's life was hard, made harder by the never ending depression that she added to with cigarettes and alcohol. She would be the first person to tell you that she was taking the long road to suicide. So three years ago I spent part of that summer in Washington DC, sitting by her hospital bed quilting (see Dresden Plate) and talking. Pamela died August 24th and my husband, who had come out for the final week, and I flew home.

The next morning we got up as usual, read the paper, and went out the front door to take the dogs on their morning walk. There was an angel standing on my front porch. Now this was not a gleaming messenger from above but a very tacky, Dynel haired, nylon robed angel about a foot tall. Well when your sister has been dead for all of 72 hours and an angel shows up on your front porch, you invite her in. And I guarantee that if Pamela were to come back as an angel she would be a very tacky Dynel haired, nylon angel and she would be laughing at all of us. So I put the angel on the entry table where I also have my Athena, a retablo from Mexico, a clay angel from Nicaragua, and a carved figure of Jesus.

I already introduced everyone to Max, the dust mop kitty, but the important part about Max is that he is still less than two years old so he has that young cat curiosity and derring do. One Monday a year ago I was doing my regular Monday morning cleaning, dusting, and vacuuming when I heard a crash. I went down the front stairs and found Max standing on the entry table looking down at Jesus lying on the floor with one of his arms on the ground next to him. The figure is wood with pegs holding on the arms and legs so no real harm was done but I still chastised Max, telling him that he had broken poor Jesus. When I bent down and picked up the pieces and stuck the arm back on I heard music. Now I was very confused because there shouldn't have been music. I looked around and cocked my head trying to figure out where the music was coming from. Well there was my sister, the angel, playing music and waving her arms. My tacky Dynel haired, nylon robed angel was a music box that had never played a note until Jesus was back in one piece. She has never played a note since either.