Dear You,

I sent a card, made a call. Said a prayer and another.

I whispered and wished, just like the wise woman told me.

“Call on your angels,” she said, and I wanted desperately

to know their names, to see their faces.

Are they cherubs with soft squat bodies and dispositions of good cheer?

Or do they have faces turned ragged with time and too many demands?

Forgive me. I am flip. Not because I don’t believe in a life

beyond what I can touch and see, but because I do, and this

hanging on is getting me nowhere but here, in a slow Sunday hum.

All these years of searching and I’m back to myself,

to paying a stranger to explain my life, answer my fears.

All week I quiz my friends and family: “Do you have angels?” —

weaving the query between “how are you doing,” and

“how much do you think about death?”

You'd be surprised at the response.

Ann has not just angels, but spirit animals and

spirit friends, each with names and personalities.

And Jane talks to her angels every day, as if greeting a lover,

a mother, a beloved pet. Her angels come from far branches

of the family tree. When she calls they answer right away —

no pleading required.

I want that!

In the morning, I invite my angels to join me.

I get nothing, not even a praying hands emoji.

At night, despite the no-show, I still give

a thank you, then fall deep in the silence.

So now I write letters — to faraway friends, to neighbors

and strangers, to the people I used to be, and people

I want to be.

A pile of pages, most unsent.

Dear You and You and You.

Are you my angel?