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He looked up and motioned to the statue before me, and my eyes caught a glimpse of his dark profile. “It’s an angel of grief.”
There were no words for me to say, so he continued.
“Angels are said to have little to no emotion, but they can feel intensity. This angel,” he said, lifting a hand to the statue, “can’t feel sorrow, but he can experience loss. And that’s the closest thing to emotion that can shatter a soul.”
I took his words and rolled them around in my mind. “But if they can’t feel emotion, can they have a soul?” I asked, surprising myself and feeding into the conversation, unsure as to why.
“Depends. What’s a soul?” he inquired curiously.
Turning my face back to the statue, I inhaled, taking a moment to think. “An identifiable living presence.”
A slight smirk lifted through the shadows that cradled his face, lighting an unknown spark in me. “That’s vague,” he paused, “and incredibly inaccurate.”
“I’m sorry?” I cinched my eyebrows and turned to face him completely. My hand reached up to my hood to make sure it stayed over my head, keeping my face and hair dry.
His hueless eyes looked down at my flowers before coming back up to my face. “Carnations. Easily identifiable and once living.”
His shoulders leaned into my direction.
“Soulless.”
I looked down to the flowers in my hands, unable to find any words to respond with. The petals were an off-white color with dark red along the edges, and the stems were a dull green. They were gathered neatly in a black bow, which was beginning to soak from the rain.
I’ve loved carnations ever since I was a little girl. My mom would plant them next to the steps on our front porch, where I could see them every day as I would come and go. They reminded me of home, of family, and of life.
“Try again,” he requested, snapping me back to the conversation. “What’s a soul?”
Looking up from my flowers, I stared at him deeply as I struggled to find the answer I wanted. My eyes connected with his, my vision fighting to see the color of his irises.
“A soul is…” my words tapered off as my stance on the matter faltered. “…a connection?”
He raised his eyebrows at my answer. “A connection to what?”
I bit my bottom lip, drawing it in between my teeth. “To the world. To each other.”
His head tilted at my response, and he took one step closer, erasing any gentleness from his expression. “So, then you believe your soul will always be tied to this world, or someone on it?” He took another step, and suddenly my lungs stopped working. “Do you believe that you will always need to depend on something to live? To thrive? To feel?”
At this point, he was standing right in front of me, with the rain still rolling and beading off our jackets. I looked up at him as he looked down at me.
“What’s your soul feeling right now? At this very second?”
Swallowing down my emotions, I pulled out the most generic answer I could think of. “Grief. It’s why I’m here.”
He gave a single nod, and it was a slow movement that implied he didn’t fully believe me.
After a brief pause, he protested.“Your uncleis the reason why you’re here. Your grief is simply an emotional reaction to the loss. Your emotions didn’t force you into the car and drive you here.”
My lips gently parted at his claim. He was calling me out, insinuating I was lying, even if his words were subtle.
“Now, give me your real answer.”
My eyes searched his with a desperation I couldn’t shake. There was a forcefulness to his demand, a light growl in his words. He could see right through me, and we both knew it.
But I wasn’t going to let my guard down because I didn’t evenknowhim.
“Thatismy real answer.”
And with that, he bowed his head and took a step back. There was no rebuttal, there was no challenge. He simply took my answer as what it was.
