I’m with Saint Michael at the edge of Heaven under the cosmos, stars fleets of angels like meteors, immersed in the night waters of the world. Razor wings fall and ripple across the waters of life.
I am crying, always crying in my dreams, burying my face in my angel’s chest and sobbing for having lost my purpose, my mind, my faith in humanity and America. He hushes me and brushes hair from my tears and wraps his hands around mine, then guides me in prayer.
His voice is sonorous, just like the thunder I came to know it as when I was 12. It has a depth like Creation and gravity like soil.
“May Allie find peace in small things. May she follow her heart. May the world rest and she sleep, free of worry and cares. May she know God’s grace.”
I join him in repeating the words, but they’re like sand on my tongue. Intonation doesn’t work, so I sing. Then they are crystal, sweet, and the waters we stand in fluoresce like fireworks, painting images of a future, of what I can be, what I will never be, my past and my future.
Michael and I sit and we meditate, cosmos within ourselves, and finally, I fall back asleep into the gentle lull of the sky.
I fly as a red tailed hawk through cliffs and rivers and forests, carrying the prayer in my heart with the wings Michael gave me.
The sun rises.