I see my guardian angel. She is sitting on the curb sucking bad coffee out of a hole in the lid of a paper cup. I am carrying groceries out to my car and there she is. It had been years, but of course I recognize her instantly. Still, she looks different. She hasn’t aged; I don’t know if angels do in fact age—she’ll probably look 18 forever—but she looks the worse for wear. Her eyes are sunk deep in their sockets, and she has dyed her hair black, in stark contrast to the bright, diffused light that wraps around her. She looks unhealthy; her sickly yellow skin belies her natural radiance and is pulled taut around her bones.
The only clean sweater was at the bottom of her suitcase, of course. Sarah stood in her jeans and bra, throwing clothes onto the bed. Outside, the rain picked up,
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