He would come to me, my guardian angel, in the dead of night. The bedroom door would creak open, a sliver of light would rend the darkness, and for a moment a heavenly glow would frame his gossamer wings.
He would walk toward me, my guardian angel, silent as a thief, the rustle of his wings betraying him.
"Hush," he would say. "I'm here to protect you."
He would sit on the edge of the bed, his weight a palpable thing, and stare down at me with curious eyes. Then his wings would spread and he'd say, "Come to me. Let me hold you, Timothy, my dear."
He would stroke my head.
Jake breaks my reverie. "Dad? Dad? Whatcha' doing?"
I look down at the journal I hold with trembling hands. It still looks as fresh and familiar as the day I bought it at Pennyworth's department store. The brown leather feels warm and comforting to the touch.
I close the book and turn to Jake. He stands awkwardly, his hands behind his back, idly kicking the corner of the throw rug with one Reebok.
Standing there before me, I see what a fine-looking young man Jake is turning into. His blond hair is turning a golden-brown, and his dark blue, almost black eyes are a striking contrast to his fair, perfect face.
"Nothing, Jake," I say. "I'm just catching up on some reading. Catching up on a lot of things."
Jake stops kicking at the rug and stares past me with eyes suddenly gone flat. "Can I go over to the Andersen's dad, and help them milk their cows? Matthew says that. . . ."
"Jake," I start to say, in a voice impossibly shrill, "you know what I think about . . .," then I stop when I see the hurt in his eyes. "Oh, what the heck! Okay son. Go on. Mind you, you had better be home by supper time."
Jake runs over and hugs me. "Thanks dad. See ya' later." Then he is gone, quick as lightning, out the front door. His scent lingers: snakes and snails and puppy-dog tails, I think.
#
There is a picture in the journal, drawn with crayons. It depicts an angel and a Devil in combat. The angel is bent low, its wings encircling it in a protective shroud. Flames lick at the wings and the angel's face is an O of surprise. The Devil poises over the angel, a grin on his face, pitchfork in hand.
#
After supper we watch a movie together. Jake sits on the couch, his legs folded up beside him and he looks so much like Trudy. Periodically he glances over at me and smiles. A sad half-smile. I see the beauty in his face and the soft delicate lines of his neck. I ache to caress him, to show him my love.
"Will Mom ever come back?" asks Jake.
I turn my head and look out through the screened porch door, past the small pond, to the giant sycamore at the edge of the property. Its leaves stir in a summer breeze. "No, Jake," I say. "I think not."
Jake turns back to the movie. He takes some popcorn from his near-empty bowl and shoves it into his small, round mouth.
#
The angel holds me in it's wings and rocks me gently back and forth. "I love you, Timothy," says the angel, stroking my head, then my face, then my neck.
#
Jake is brushing his teeth, getting ready for bed. I sit on the edge of the tub and watch his profile. His skin is so smooth and unblemished, alabaster and porcelain. He finishes washing up and goes down the hall to his room. I follow him.
Jake climbs into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. His bright eyes stare at me. "Good night, dad," he says.
I bend down and tuck his covers in, the way he likes it. "Good night, son," I say, and kiss him on the cheek, my lips lingering momentarily on his immaculate skin.
#
"Love you, Timothy," says the angel, kissing my neck. The angel's lips move across my neck and down my chest. One hand cups me as the angel places his lips on me. I look away as tears fill my eyes. A lump rises in my throat as I stiffen under the angel's touch.
"Love you," pants the angel. "Love you, son."
I place the journal down on the small plastic table, and look out at the night sky. It's chilly out here on the porch, and I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. Outside a dark, roiling cloud of mosquitoes hovers menacingly above the chopping block. I look down toward the sycamore, as its leaves dance in the chill wind.
I stand, pick up the journal and shuffle through the door, into the living room. I drop the blanket over the couch and walk down to the hall closet. I open the door and reach up to place the book back on the top shelf, when my hand brushes something smooth. There they are, all silky, smooth and golden, laying in the corner of the closet. I reach in and pull them out. They look new, unused. I slip my arms into the wings and flex them. For the first time in a long while, I feel as if I can fly, free and unfettered.
I will show them to Jake. He will be able to appreciate them. He will know a father's love for his son.
END