The Angel
A slender little hand reaches through the wire fence, stretching toward the ripe strawberries. I pretend not to notice, busying myself with weeding the onions.
«Good afternoon, Mrs. Alice,» comes the high-pitched voice of young Lex.
«Hello, sunshine,» I smile. «Come over here, help me pick some strawberries.»
The fence sags; I lift the bottom easily, and into my garden steps the Angel—that’s what I call Lex. Close behind, panting and sighing, squeezes his enormous dog, Brawler, nearly twice the boy’s size. I set a large bowl in the middle of the strawberry patch. Lex picks the biggest, juiciest berries. He has fair hair, blue eyes, and shoulder blades sharp as wings—that’s why I call him Angel. He’s five years old: clever, kind.
«Lex, why was your mum shouting this morning?»
«Oh, she wanted to paint the stools, but I spilled the paint,» he answers. «I tried to paint Brawler’s kennel and knocked the tin over.»
«Ah, that’s no trouble. We’ll have some tea, then buy more paint.»
My little Angel washes his hands without being told and settles at the table. His favourite spot is by the window. Of all the treats, he chooses strawberries with cream and a still-warm bun, dusted with sugar. Soon, white powdered moustaches frame his grin. On the mat by the door lies Brawler, well-versed in house rules, waiting patiently for his share. He gets a scone—but his mournful eyes flicker between the lone pastry and Lex and me, as if to say, *Is that all?* We laugh, and I set a bowl of broth before him. Brawler forgives us and tucks in.
An hour later, the three of us return from the shop with two tins of paint—white and green. The sky is blue, the sun high, the air warm. I duck home to change, packing the leftover strawberries and buns into a bag. On Lex’s porch sits his grandmother, blind these two years past. The little Angel adjusts her headscarf just so, tucking back a stray curl. I place a bowl of strawberries in her lap—her favourite.
On the veranda, Lex and I paint the stools white, then Brawler’s kennel green from the second tin. Lex beams; Brawler remains indifferent.
Home from work comes Ellen, the Angel’s mother. She praises her son’s work and invites us all to supper. Lex takes his grandmother’s hand, guiding her inside. He feeds her rice pudding, careful and patient. The old woman sips tea on her own, a caramel melting on her tongue. She moves through the house alone, knowing every creaking floorboard. Ellen works at a roadside café, two miles from home. Late shifts leave her weary; much depends on her boy.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Lex devour his porridge, butter melting into golden swirls. After a mug of sweet tea, he scampers off to watch cartoons. A child, yet already a man. Or perhaps a man still wrapped in childhood?
He sweeps floors, washes dishes, helps his grandmother dress, feeds her, carries in firewood—two logs at a time—and water in a small pail. He adores his dog and sometimes weeps bitterly when his mother scolds him unfairly. He laughs with abandon when splashing in the brook, droplets catching sunlight like scattered diamonds.
Ellen walks me to the gate. I urge her not to shout at Lex. *He’s a man—don’t shame him. Treasure him. Find reasons to praise.*
She sighs about her hard life—her blind mother, her meagre wages.
I reply: *You have a home. Your mother lives. You have work, a son who helps, and health. Cherish what you have—eyes on the horizon blind you to the gifts at your feet.*
Ellen smiles and waves farewell.
My lessons with Lex bear fruit. At five, he reads *The Snow Queen* fluently to his grandmother. On still evenings, we trudge to the brook with fishing rods. The sun, a ripe sunflower, sinks slowly behind the trees, casting its last golden rays. Clouds glow from beneath, gilded. The world hushes, resting from noise and bustle. Our chatter doesn’t scare the fish—soon, two silvery flashes dart in our jar. Dinner for my cat is secured…
…Today, the Angel visited me. A grown man now, forty-two. A respected surgeon. He tends his mother’s and grandmother’s graves yearly, then arrives at my door, arms laden with gifts. The world knows him as Dr. Edward Whitmore—but I know better. He’s the Angel—broad-shouldered, kind. Whatever the season, he brings a bowl of strawberries, sits by the window, and smiles. He sips tea with warm buns, smokes a pipe on the step, and when he leaves, enfolds me in his great, warm wings…