I did the deed.
Love-wise, I didn’t have a choice.
The boy (whose voice is deep, now, and who towers over me) would soon be back from a dad-visit, and his mom here was down with not only last week’s lingering cold but also a backache.
Husband has asked others to dig, lately, and son was sleeping after an all-night job.
“Alright, then, old girl (struggling to get back up to 90lbs.). it’s on you and the angels of love, because that boy is NOT going to have to bury the first ever exclusively-his pet after finding that sweet little gerbil deceased.”
I actually forgot to ask them, but the angels showed me where to start digging (soft-ish, few horrifying grubs) for the shoebox interment. We all knew, however, it would be right near JJ’s stone.
Big Jay — utter teddy bear of a Springer spaniel — would love the company, as the boy thankfully knew well. Jay loved everyone and everything — 2-legged, 4-legged, strollered. People used to knock on the door to ask if he could come out! He’d watch over little Fugo, now.
Indeed, some angels of love look just like a (fat!) happy dog.
And some angels of love are looking over all our coastlines, east and west, north and south. They are ready to do whatever God orders, as soon as He hears from us.
So, I’m praying today that Ian will somehow dissipate. Such things have happened before, if history is to be believed. But He waits for the asking. And we need to up the asking.
The angels will be around either way. Some will look like neighbors, friends, first responders. Some will look like kindly wallets from afar. Many, however, won’t be seen or mentioned; may God have vast invitation to breach our free will with His nod to them.