That rainy day I looked at photos of her, younger, before the scars. Her guardian angel went out for a smoke at all those takes, but we knew it was nearby. How else did she make it through all those hard times?
There’s a thing in her eye, the tilt of her head and sometimes lines on her brow that let us know not all was right. The holes in the wall, the stitches, the bruises, the guilt and the blame: “the world’s too small, no wonder I can’t cope.” Going to the fifth floor I’m searched before I start up. Nothing sharp, no drugs. We have to be careful – failed suicides may try again.
Who is that woman looking out the window? She turns and I see the wrapped wrist. Where is her angel? Took care of business and went for a smoke.
Depression meets the grey sky and slides around the ward like a specter, attaching itself like a sponge to the reef. At least she’s alive, and I help her to leave. She smiles at the nurses, a tear in her eye and I see her angel in the slant of the sun.