The Sweetest Music You've Ever Heard

Ahead of me, I saw a man, clad in all white, felled along the roadside. He was clutching his sandalled ankle, in obvious pain, and as I drew near he called out, “Sir, sir please, could you help me?” Beside him lay a small harp, cracked, with a split string flung out obtusely. “What happened?” I asked, when he lay in my shadow.

“I have fallen, and I think I’m injured.” His voice sounded like a far-off flute.

“How did you fall?”

“I came down here to pick some blackberries from that bush over there, but I guess I got distracted.”

“Those blackberries do look delicious. I could see how they could be distracting.”

“Yes, well, can you help me? I just need you to walk me to that barn over there, and I’ll rest up and be on my merry.”

“I suppose I could help, but you see, I’m a very important man in my time. I have a reputation. I can’t be seen helping just anyone.”

“I’m an angel, and I could play you the sweetest music you’ve ever heard, music that would make you forget all about your troubles.”

“But you’re harp’s busted. How do you plan on playing music with a busted harp?”

“Look, are you going to help me up or not?”

Deciding that I had nowhere better to be, I stooped down, and the angel draped his arm around my shoulder. We walked – plodded, I should say – the half-mile to the barn. He stumbled twice, the second time nearly pulling me over with him. He gave me an apologetic look and said “My name’s Hal.”

“We’re almost there,” I said. And, indeed, we were. I pushed open barn door with my free hand, guiding Hal between rusty farm implements and piles of manure.

“Just lay me down over there,” he said, motioning to a bale of hay near the donkey. I did so. Hal took a deep, smooth breath, relishing every oxygen molecule. A shotgun cocked.

“Who’re you two?” A thick voice asked from behind.

“This… my friend has been injured, and he needed to come in here to rest,” I said, turning around to meet the newcomer. He wore dingy overalls; his face hid behind three days of stubble. His eyes were slim, like pistachios. He held a shotgun.

“Came here to die looks more like it,” said the farmer. Turning to Hal, I saw that he was right. I knew nothing about angel physiologies, but I knew that this one was dead.

“Why’d you help him?” the farmer asked, turning to spit out his tobacco juice.

“He wanted some blackberries.”

There was a pause. “Well, I would never waste my time on a fool who’s too distracted by blackberries to see his nose in front of his face.” He turned and walked out. “Don’t worry, I’ll bury him in the morning.” But I knew that angels didn’t need to be buried.

On the way back, I picked a handful of blackberries. I had to avoid the thorns from the bush to get at them. They were plump, the size of golf ball-sized hail, and they shone in the afternoon light. Grabbing four, I popped one into my mouth, then another, and before I knew it all four were in there. They were so delicious, and I forgot all about the election, and the McCarthy’s drowned kid, Martin’s frozen peas…