Phebe Jewell lives in the Pacific Northwest. When she’s not writing, she can be found walking her dog in the woods.
Crosswalk
“I’ve always wanted to meet an angel,” she helps me to my feet.
One hand in hers, I stand and look down at broken glass littering the street. I must get a broom. No one should be hurt because of me. Her hands are small, but strong. Her eyes meet mine. I could stand on this crosswalk forever, holding her hand. She found me. Knows me.
“Cmon, Gabriel,” tugging me toward the sidewalk. “The light’s gonna change any second now.”
“But the glass,” I point to the shards at our feet. Even angels drop things when they’re in a hurry.
Pulling at my tee shirt, “Cmon.”
I can’t move. The glass is teeth
knocked out of the mouth of the sky. I must stay with the pieces until I can
put them back together. The sidewalk is crowded with people looking down. I
want to tell them the sky is blue, the earth is round, that we are air, but my
voice is broken.
“Move, asshole!” a large man
shouts from his truck, hand on the horn as he slows into a right turn. Speeding
uphill, he leans out the window and gives me the finger. Bits of glass caught in his tire treads catch
sun and wink at me.
I reach for her, but she’s gone.