When her mother Clara was in the hospital and Luisa was in
the sixth grade, Luisa and her dad picked out the bell for when she came
home. It was just big enough to be heard
through the house, even if she rang it softly, which truth be told was all she
could do.
Clara fought against ringing it, not wanting to be a burden
and a bother, but still there were times when she needed help and there was
nobody close by. Not often – every few
days, maybe.
Clara held on for two months before the cancer ate her away
and the bell stopped ringing. While her
mom was back home, Luisa loved and hated the bell. It would ring and she’d tell herself, “Every
time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.” She’d walk into the bedroom,
delighted to still see her mom, but aching for the day when she got her wings.
That was twenty years ago.
Luisa Payne, nurse, works hospice now. She drives from house to house and rings the door
bells, and her clients’ caretakers invite her in. She gets to spend a little time with their
angels, and then she moves on to the next house. She gets to know the angels well, each in
their turn, and gets to know when they’ve had enough. Sometimes, she leaves them a little present
for later, and then she goes home.
That night, she cuddles her cats and plays with her dogs and
calls up papa to check on him, like always. Just before she goes to bed,
though, she rings her mother’s bell to let Clara know a new angel is on their
way. And then she sleeps.
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