For the Director of MusicThere were four angels in my mother's house.One sat inside the wood furnace and danced for me in a flowing orange dress whenever I opened its iron door. Sometimes when I sat at her piano Another would flow out through my fingertips Inside the grandfather clock a chorus tolled out: three symmetric verses reverberated, filling the home. An angel cried: Three o’clock, all is well. Back then time passed on peacefully, and my mother told me four angels would visit her whenever I smiled; each one a mantle of feathers and light. But then she passed on peacefully, and we were alone: three angels and myself. The house had gone still, and I could not smile. The stove still burned, but the heat was cold on my flesh. The piano collected dust, The grandfather clock tolled without a choir. There was no dance No music No chorus. The three would not play. The fourth would not smile. I was visited by the Director of Music. "She misses her angels," said He. The clock will tell the time to come, the stove will warm my humble bones; the piano will play its sad song, but I must heal, I must smile, and we four angels shall visit my mother again. |