When you are lost to yourself, angels pass through you.
These words were the nicest collection of letters ever sent to me, about me, a gift in grief. I remember the moment, the words so close to the actual experience, epiphany.
The irony, the man who comforted me, I've never met, in another hemisphere, on another continent. Once I heard his voice in a cordial and broken greeting; I'm known vicariously, through her.
She knows my vulnerability, maybe more than me. She is my sculptor, and I reject her now and then, my stubbornness. At times, she moves on to more beautiful things, but I know there is no such thing. Together she and I have seen the mystery. So clearly, that he is able to say it best.
More than this symbolic knowing, that moment. I want that back. I crave that omniscience; that garden of eden sin is mine.