Devonne Brown

“We were angels before we were born, and we were sent to your tummy for our wings to grow off so we could take care of you.” Big silver two year old eyes looked up at me. He was speaking in earnest. The other brother, his twin, nodded in agreement. Where was this coming from? He didn’t cite his source.

“O yeah?” He nodded, turned, looked up, and raised his arms as if to be picked up. That was some heavy information from two little guys, my mirror twins, the same opposites. Left handed and right, silver eyed and brown, thinner and heavier, they didn’t even look alike until I said they were twins. 

I’d never spoken of the origin and nature of angels. I’d called the boys angels all their little lives. I’d also called them “Squinks.” with equal affection. Both words carried the same meaning to my innocent two boys. Both words sounded like love, that’s all they knew.

Ian was pushing his ambulance over a rough road of carpet and crashed. Pocahontas came to survey the damage. “Can your Pocohontas make everything better? Is she an angel?” I said.

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Mom, Pocahontas is a toy, you play with toys. Angels are real. They’re good.” He set me straight and quick. 

“How can you tell the difference? I mean, how would I know that Pocohontas isn’t an angel?” I asked. “

I don’t think you can see angels, can you mom?” 

Busted. How is it possible for a two year old to know words like that? When I called my boys angels I never once said they had wings. Was it true what I’d heard about kids being able to see angels? About kids being psychic? About twins having a special gift?

It would be cool to be able to claim one of those things at least. We were just about the most normal and boring single parent family in the world. The boys were happy and well adjusted, I was always looking over my shoulder to ward off the next bad thing.

It’s a good idea not to run off an angel.