There are Many Roads to Salvation
In the mornings the women sing to the sun in the hopes of saving all our souls. Their voices rise with the breeze, lilt and flutter in time with the feathers on the wings of the little blue birds that crisscross across the bluer sky.
The water in the river may be cold, but our skin gets hot when we sit in the sun. That light seeps right through our pores, more fluid than a liquid. We become as stung and pink as the lovely little poison berries that hang from their bushes like so many guarantees.
The angel says, There are six billion ways to die. You only have to pick one.
In the evenings after we gulp down our dinners we all find our secret places and sit alone. The children play the solitude game, seeing who can withdraw the farthest. We whisper our private prayers to the wind, hoping something bigger than ourselves might hear us. We speak to the angel like the angel is a sister, a brother, a best friend.
Once in awhile, the angel speaks back.