They say angels can fly. That they are golden, glowing pillars of heavenly purity. That they are robed in glowing white, soaring over the mortal world on wings of light. Some say they are invincible, invulnerable, that the watch the universe turn with indifferent patience.
They are wrong. Angels are small, thin, weary. They are draped with bland, sterile white, with a young face and old eyes. They watch as the universe passes them by, turn after turn, with gaunt faces and blank eyes and scars. They watch as their world draws away from them, the sick, the diseased, the insane, and they wish more than ever for beautiful wings to take them away from this place. On the roof, they look up, and they are so close to the heavens, so far from the earth. They leap for paradise, they leap for bliss. Hospital gowns are replaced with robes, frowns give way to glowing smiles. They can feel it. There are no mortals to witness as their wings of light finally unfold and they soar away, away, away.