The cadence of crying angels

This piece is titled Weep for the World.

Josephine Wall (artist)

This piece is titled “Weep for the World”.

My white linens are blustering in the breeze. They have just met foreign substances and places that have tainted their purity. They can maintain their cleanliness for long periods of time in the absence of mere stains. But every once in a while, my linens get muddy. The rain pours down so harshly coercing saturated sediment to leap onto my pearly threads, making them cling to their fleeing lives. They can’t help it though.

But when the rain gets too hard to bear, gravity smashes itself recklessly onto any surface reachable. It conquers my path, knocking over trees onto my trail. I can’t walk on it anymore.

So when this happens, me and my white linens grace a new territory. Though this terrain is unstable, it is not new. Not new to me, anyway. But this place has no redeeming qualities. The cement is a conglomeration of cracks and tar is slopped onto the edges of it. It is bumpy and shaky and unwelcoming. And no matter if my linens and I try to reroute, the cement reaps our presence despite our escape. So we just continue along with it.

The rain pelts me and my linens with liquid bullets, blurring the line between sanity and sanctity. What can we do? I cannot control the melancholic paradigms of weather, so I continue humming my solemn soliloquies. My linens are on the verge of melting off my bones and feel like welcoming the viral mud. They remain relentless to my saturated stature. 

And right when the bleak memories near sweeping away my strength, the downpour alleviates the cement path, the mud, and my linens. It is now light, the air, and the breeze. With every one of my swishing steps, my linens grow buoyant. The beckoning sun stains the trees’ appendages apricot, enticing me to pull towards the horizon. Staggered trees shelter the horizon and a meek lake.

The shadowy forest with shrines of ferns and flowers guide me and my linens to the water’s edge. The lake is a murky canvas, but a canvas of warm tones and acrylics manifesting across the rippling surface.

I cannot control the melancholic paradigms of weather, so I continue humming my solemn soliloquies.”

And to my surprise, a dainty dock pleading me to enter the breathing picture nature has been made out for me. My fresh linens and I strategically step across the parted boards and waltz towards the drifting sun.

But at the end of the dock, a beaming figure—also wearing white linens—greets me. I am taken aback. Her smile radiating with her happy cries rest familiar in my mind. I feel entitled to apologize for disrupting her peace, but she invites me to stay. She forgives me—she forgives me for everything.

She has an angel-like presence that mends my past faults. Her warm linens embrace mine and my head rests on her shoulder. My linens are rejuvenated and my normal routes have been reestablished. So me and my whimsical linens return to normalcy. 

Although we are not near anymore and won’t be until the next downpour, her presence still lingers around me. She is peace and she is the moon. Her glow waits at the end of unwieldy tasks and trails. She is a gift as a result of somber. 

She makes the flowers bloom and the sky cease its dreariness after its tantrums. She is the cadence of crying angels.