Tears in heaven

Tears in Heaven

Sometimes I like to watch the rain. Sit with a cup of hot tea by the windowsill and observe the world through the frosted glass. Gray buildings, people soaked to the skin, striding quickly through puddles, wet dogs looking like they've just come from a shelter, children shouting insults at cars that, as they pass, splash the water gathered on the road.

All of them drenched in raindrops. You know, my great-grandmother, when she was alive and I was still little, used to say they were the tears of angels. Hmmm...Interesting... Beautiful, slender, winged beings with friendly faces, moved by the fate of their sinful brothers, accompanying mortals sealed in the hermetic world of their own views, feelings, perceptions... Compassionate. Apparently, sometimes, if they feel like it, they descend to earth.

Then they walk through the city streets in the pouring rain, sadly observing.

You know, I think they see more than we do, they see—and they try to help. They easily notice the scratches on the face of the girl in the flower shop, beaten up yesterday by a drunken boy, and they try to bandage them; they see the life of the boy who buried his parents yesterday falling apart, and they try to piece them together so that each piece fits together as it once did. They see an old man without an umbrella, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, desperately searching for someone to spend a few happy moments with, someone who recognizes him not as a worn-out machine, but as a human being; they try to comfort him and lift his spirits, they see him as a flower to be admired before he withers away completely...

They try... They try...

They try...

I look at the young boy standing at the bus stop. His hands are blue and frozen. In one of them he holds a note. I don't know, a letter? From his girlfriend? From an aunt abroad? Or from his brother in the army? Or maybe just a ticket? No... Not a ticket... People don't cry when looking at tickets. Maybe it's a letter after all...?

And They know. And they feel the blood pulsing in his temples... How his previously impeccably organized world is shaking in its dowries, how a few sentences scribbled on a piece of paper crush his dreams, tear apart the system of values ​​he's built over the years, and rip the head of his God, whatever he believes in, from his spine... And all this because of a few brain cells that decided to rebel and turn into a tumor... They can't help him. Only a tender pat on the shoulder and a whispered "Hang in there!" must suffice.

Raindrops fall from the sky less and less often, landing sporadically on my windowpane. The bad weather is leaving, and with it—Them. Yet they leave a lasting mark, sometimes like a scratch on glass, other times like a balm healing the soul.

And have you met your own Angel yet?