Memories Where Angels Now Sleep

Jimmy awakened to the sharp shrill of the alarm in his small room that overlooked the vacant dark alley. His mind still spun with an opaque confusion from the spoils of last night’s binge. His eyes felt dry and burned like the fire from the pits of hell; the hell that he has lived for the last three years. Jimmy had always believed in the old adage that time heals all wounds, but now he realized it was all a lie.The wounds he felt from the loss of his wife had not healed with time, but festered and bore down on his heart like gangrene. Sliding to the edge of the bed he scratched away the sleep from his eyes and staggered to the bathroom. Looking into the mirror he saw the ghost of the man he once was, the shell of a man that wilted like a dying flower in spring, and uttered soft curses beneath his breath. “Damn it all to hell” he thought; ‘damn it all to hell.’

Starring with vacant eyes into the looking glass jimmy thought of his past. He thought of happier times before Leah had died. He remembered the quiet mornings and the way the sunlight danced like tiny fairies in the golden strands of her hair. He remembered it all like it was yesterday, but yesterday was a dream where angels now slept. Suddenly the phone rang breaking Jimmy from his trance. He hesitated to answer, but the phones ring continued to bitch with its incessant annoying cry. Muttering beneath his breath Jimmy walked into the kitchen and reluctantly answered.

“Hello” he stammered in an almost guttural tone.

The voice from the other end came across as pleasant extolling a chirpy greeting.

“Good morning Mr. Johnson; how are you this fine day?”

Jimmy almost puked with the false exuberance and started to hang up the phone when something the man said caught his attention.

 The poem...

Memories Where Angels Now Sleep

I stood alone in the garden; I walked where angels now sleep.

Gray skies whispered overhead; hearts forever to God keep.

Stone paths lay before me; broken by the tears of those who weep.

Eight miles; eight lonely weeks; oh but for the grace of God my soul too should flee.

Along this stone path that I now tread; soft memories now grow instead of flowers.

I kneel to the wet ground and pluck a few; I hold them to my heart for hours.

I am now dancing amidst the fallen leaves; laughing together in golden peace.

I smile and then I weep as the petals of those memories turn brown from unimaginable grief.

Oh but for the Grace of God…

I too should be numbered amongst the memories

that grow where angels now sleep.