I’m comforted daily by the angel in my living room.

Clothed in white, her ethereal face is pure and sweet, framed by short brown hair. Downy wings tower over her narrow shoulders.

Floating above my mantel, her arms are outstretched over photos of ones I love and the stars beneath their feet.

I feel as long as she’s there, no harm will come to us. A fanciful notion lacking direct evidence, but a comfort nonetheless. Who’s to say that angels are not in our midst. And if we’d change our hearts, couldn’t the angels be us?

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