The Children's Hospital

47

I am weary, my sister says. And still so much to do.

Are you tired of the baking and the cleaning and the sewing? I ask.

It is no more effort than praise, she says. But still I am weary. I am weary for the new world, or weary of the old one. Woe to the preserving angel! Her task is the hardest.

Never to sleep, I say. Subject to every creaturely whim. Slave to fools. Preserving the doomed.

I must love what is impermanent.

Your body is a shell.

My beauty is ruined by stone and steel.

You are imprisoned.

My bottom is cold. For weeks my bottom has dragged in the black depths of this sea of wrath. Why should an angel suffer the cruel vicissitudes of a bottom? My substance is light!

At least you are not lonely.

I am, in my way. They are not celestial personalities. There is no song with them. There is no praise. Though some sing, and some praise. I am not lonely like you, though.

I am contented.

Lonely angel! No one to talk to except your own hand. Dull, lonely exile!

I was friends with the boy.

And now he is returned to life, and beyond you. My poor little brother. Come to me anytime and I will comfort you.

I am not a mortal. I have no need of you.

Woe to the recording angel! His job is the hardest.

I only have to listen and watch, I say. And make sure that nothing is lost.

Suffering angel! Lonely angel! Keep him from the madness of boredom and uselessness!

Don’t make me angry.

Your rage is spent. I saw it go. I bowed to it like every other, back when you were heavenly. Now you are a pen. Woe!

Woe! I say, too, but I don’t really feel it. Woe to our brother, I say instead. For his is truly the hardest job.

Wrapped in flesh, she says. It binds worse than stone.

Anger without discernment, I say.

Violence without grace.

Ignorance without peace.

Woe to him! she says. May he forgive me for complaining, when my yoke is so light!

She goes on dramatically. Even an angel can make selfish a prayer of sorrowful concern for another. I go to him instead, because this moment has brought his suffering to mind. Ishmael is in his bed, two conquests on either side of him — they’ve turned away because of the heat in his skin. I sit down near Ishmael and say, Brother. Even sleeping he is not free to know me or to know himself, but I put my hand on his heart and say it again.