Brooke: Painted Angels

When Elliot was young he had visions of painted angels–like the ones he found on dusty canvases in the attic. Most of them were unfinished; roughly sketched lines with dabs of color only in their cheeks and wings. His mother was the artist. The angels had been her hobby at one time–her escape. They had perfectly folded wings, gentle hands, and white flowing robes like smoke billowing around their naked feet. Sometimes there were no wings. Just a warm glow, healthy flushed white skin stretched over slight and elegant frames that stood suspended like magic in midair.

Elliot was surprised when he discovered his mother had made them. He found them there in the attic, tucked away like a treasure hidden and forgotten and thought: Michelangelo! Da Vinci! Raphael!

Then he noticed etched faintly in the corners of each of them 3 delicate letters: ALB–Abigail Larson Blythe. No Michelangelo. Just mom.

Mom who used to paint angels until life got in the way. Until the kids came and so did the late nights and the endless chauffeuring and the meetings and the dishes and the doctor’s appointments. After that the angels were stacked up together and stowed away with grandma Lois’s old furniture and boxes of family records. They were unfinished projects, unfit to hang on any wall or in any gallery. Stacked away and forgotten.

But Elliot found them; he traced their rough outlines with his fingers, and made them his own. Elliot found them when he went to the attic to hide.