The girl who made angels grew up. One day, when she was older and an initiate to the world of adult cynicism and failure, one of her angel’s returned to her in the hopes that she would complete him.
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“But I could never make them perfect. There was always some flaw, some imperfection.”
“Perhaps…perhaps that was the trouble.” Reaching into the box, he drew out the angel doll that had once sat upon her bed. Running his fingers over the porcelain face, his fingertips traced a small crack just above the angel’s left midnight-blue eye. “Nothing is perfect in our eyes.”
“Is not god perfect?”
“And are humans not of god’s image? And humans are imperfect. You look in the wrong place for perfection, because even god is flawed viewed through the eyes of humanity. God is science, and nature, and everything in between. If there is perfection in god, it is not in our conception of him. Perfection is found in in simply existing as we are.
“Then humans…”
“Are perfect at being human.”
“And I am perfect…”
“At being you.”
Her eyes turned to meet those of the incomplete angel, “But what will it mean to be perfect at being an angel?”
His hand, soft as a shadow, brushed across her cheek, “What does it mean to be perfect at being you?”
“I don’t know. I just am who I am each day. Some days I am happy, some days I am sad. Some days I fear death, and others I am too busy loving life to care what happens. In general I try to make those around me happy. I try to make myself happy.”
“Then try with me. Do not worry about making me perfect – worry about making me what I should be, nothing more, nothing less.”
And so she did. She shaped him, or at least she tried, and when she was done, she stood back and looked at him.
“Are you done?” He asked.
“I am not sure. I do not think I ever will be.” Fear edged her voice.
But he only smiled and turned to the window. His wings trembled as they spread, faltered, and then steadied. How far he flew, and where he went, she never knew.