Dancing with an Angel
at
By: Kathie Weaver
I know that sound. The corner of my lips turns upward in anticipation of the visitor. Like a royal decree from the soldier’s trumpet, the jingling of the cleaning cart announces his arrival long before he actually appears. Excitement surges as the sounds get louder and louder. For hours now I have laid in this bed with nothing to do but listen to the hum of the oxygen tank and think. Visitors are few and loneliness is a bad company to fear.
Yet every day the faithful sound of an angel approaching rings through the air, ushering in humility, humour, and most importantly hope He is not what you would imagine an angel to be like, his hair is always flopping around tired from its wrestling match with the wind. His eyes have a sparkle to them laced with a little mischief and his laughter is loud and slightly obnoxious yet soothing and infectious. He tells the worst jokes, sings off-key, and his stories seem so farfetched that you know he has embellished them for effect.
Disguised as a cleaner, he comes by daily and stays for a few minutes but he makes every moment of his visit count. I make it a point to try to get a glimpse of his wings tucked under the loose-fitting overalls but he is good at hiding them. He is whistling today, it is a new melody taught to him by an orchestra of birds that very afternoon or so he says. It is hard for me to talk so he holds the conversation while I watch his animated movements intently.
Perhaps it is just the fever but I can feel the warmth of the sunshine on my face as he describes the day outside. He tells me a ridiculous joke and because it is difficult for me to laugh he does it willingly for the both of us. Before he leaves he comes close to my bedside and gently pats the covers at my feet as he says with encouraging voice, ”Hang in there, tomorrow we go dancing” he does a clumsy little two-step and starts to whistle again as he exits. As quickly as he was here, he is gone.
I can’t yet tell him how he brightens my day or how I anticipate his visits but as soon as I get well again I’m going to take him up on his offer to dance. With the remnants of a joyful encounter relaxing my fear, I drift off to sleep lulled by the sound of the oxygen and filled with new hope and a determination to get out of this bed and dance. Will it be to the likes of the bird orchestra or simply to the familiar jingle of my angel’s cleaning cart? It does not matter the music, the skill, or the partner for it is the will that sparks the dancer to dance.