Death is the dusty whiff that
heralds heaven’s tears splattering on bone dry earth.
Grief’s curtains, lavender-grey
absterge ((Absterge: To wipe off, to cleanse.)) high desert valleys and earth moves forth.
I grew up in a family where the afterlife was all around us. My father often told about how he had seen an angel. In time, the story retold became an encounter with Jesus Christ. He said that he was visited in the bathroom while shaving, that he could see the angel’s bare chest through an opening in his white robe. Dad would hold out his thumb and index finger measuring an inch, describing how the hair on the figure’s legs stood straight out.
My mother would describe a period early in their marriage when my father would leave for his paper route. She says she would hear Dad’s footsteps exit through the front door, but soon the screen door would creak open again and footsteps would return up the hall. A man with black eyes would come sit on the side of the bed and stare at her, as she lay frozen. She would pray, and the man would eventually disperse through the ceiling.
My siblings took these cues and began sharing their own stories. My oldest brother came to the point where he spoke to angels and other supernatural creatures daily.