She said, “You draw like an angel.” I looked up and asked, “Do angels draw?” She smiled and handed me another sheet of paper.
Is it funny, or fabulous, that I still believe her? I had no real reason to, I barely knew her. Grandma said her name was Aunt Ruby. It’s funny how that one word, Aunt, could make anyone safe. She was probably a cousin, second or removed, I didn’t know the difference. (I don’t really even know now.) I was sitting on the front stoop of my grandparent’s house. Crayons and paper spread across the cement steps that no one ever used, but for such projects as this — or making baby dolls from the flower heads that grew on either side.
I don’t know how long she was watching me. I could get lost inside of it. When she began to speak, I didn’t understand at first – her voice was slower and rounded, southern they said, whatever that meant. But soon I got used to the shapes of the words and began to follow. She, like so many, had pegged me as shy, but I was just listening. She asked if I would draw her something. Her refrigerator was bare, she said. Knowing what lonesome meant, having felt it, I neither wanted her, nor her refrigerator to feel it – empty – so I agreed.
She flew out the next day. Did she put it in the car for the two hour ride to Minneapolis? In her luggage on the plane? Did she have magnets for the refrigerator? Did it curl up on the ends in the southern heat, only to be cooled with the opening of the fridge door? Did she smile when she saw my name that stretched across the entire bottom of the page? She had already given me the answer with one smile — Yes! And I still believe. Angels DO draw. They ask questions. They give compliments. From stoop to soar, they connect us. Every day.
