A Quiet Belief in Angels

Let the past be what it was, the present what it is, the future the best it can be.

Love was the breaking and healing of hearts. Love was the misunderstood. Love was faith; love was the promise of now that became hope for the future. Love was a rhythm, a resonance, a reverberation. Love was awkward and foolish, it was aggressive and simple, possessed of so many indefinable qualities that it could never be conveyed in language. Love was being.

Sorry is for the things you've done that you shouldn't have not for things you believe in.

A life to hold, or to see slip through uncaring and inattentive hands, but always a life. And given one, we wish for two, or three, or more, so easily forgetting the one we had was spent unwisely

The city went on about its business. A new day would soon begin, and nothing so inconsequential as a death possessed the power to delay it. It was just a life, after all: no more, nor less than that.

I looked down at my hands. They were folded neatly together on the table like they belonged to someone else, as if someone had left their gloves behind and I had arranged them ready for collection.

Perhaps some of us will have learned enough to make a difference, to influence things for the better, to wait until the moment is right, and then act. And despite appearances, despite all indications to the contrary, despite reticence for fear of what others might think, I still felt we all possessed this quiet belief. A quiet belief in angels.