His Angel [entire series combined]

His old frail eyes
look into her youthful soul,
pondering where and when
it will be the right time and place.

Should he wait until his wife is asleep,
dreaming of the heavenly days of their love?

The warmth of this precious child,
too much to handle in his strong, yet weak arms.

She sleeps, safe and warm.

Under the blankets
with nothing to hide,
but innocence.

His timing is off,
just like his mind.

The little girl sleeps,
dreaming of everything possible in the world.

Moons pass overhead,
and days turn to weeks.

The old man misses his little girl,
the innocence she carries.

A grandfather waits by his squeaking door,
smoking his third cigarette of the morning.

The father steps out of the all-too flashy truck,
holding hands with the little girl.

Her hair is golden and messy,
her dress is pink and laced,
and her eyes,

her eyes sparkle like sapphires.

The angel approaches,
dropping her father’s hand
running to the sweet embrace of the old man.

It’s too much,
he effortlessly picks her up,
his sagging arms feeling no pain.

The father leaves.

Inside there is nothing unusual,
a woman, a home, a life.

That night their life shattered.

She plays with her perfect dolls,
sitting in his lap.
He tries to concentrate,
on the out-dated television set.

Her scent is bearing down on him.

The old man
touches the child’s soft, golden hair.
It’s like messy silk,
slipping through his bony fingers.

“You are my angel.”

The words are thought,
not spoken.

The wife is a hologram,
sitting in her chair
with nothing of importance to do.
She is there, but not really,
dwelling on memories.

She silently walks to her room,
separated from the old man,
and his needs.

“Ask her when she is going to sleep.”

The words are spoken this time,
whispered in the child’s ear.
She runs to obey, she’s a good little girl.
Obedient, with her skirt twisted around her thighs.

The old woman is sleeping.

At night is when the claws come out.
The old man clips his nails,
the little girl watches.
Intrigued by her presence,
the grandfather pulls her close.

“You are my angel.”

Whispered slow and caring.

His blood pressure is rising
as his lips curl into a smile.

No one’s watching.

The little girl holds tight to his chest,
musty cologne fills her nose.
Distracting.

His fingers slide up her frilled skirt,
pulling down the only thing hiding her
from the world.

She doesn’t move.
How can she?
No one has taught her, yet.

His nails dig in.

She doesn’t cry.
The little girl sits,
scared,
more alone by the second.

Her eyes close,
as the old man’s sharp nails
curl and skew
inside of her.

His breathing comes in heavy,
and he loves the way she feels.

Seconds, fade to minutes,
too many to count.

When he’s had his fill of
“pleasuring” the little girl
his fingers slide out.

Was there blood?

She doesn’t look,
suddenly understanding,
feeling exposed.

The old man relaxes.
Amazement,
overwhelming his body.

He reaches for her delicate face.

“You are my little angel.”

Parting her lips with his tongue,
slime-covered and bitter.
It chokes her throat,
and she clenches her teeth.

He does not bleed.

“This will be our secret, just you and me.”

Free from his grasp,
she climbs down
and runs for the couch.
Under the covers,
her safe place.

He can’t help but laugh.

“If you get scared of the dark,
come to my room. You may be small,
but we can work something out.”

She closes her eyes,
thinking of her loves.

Her dress knotted,
finally safe.

The old man,
behind closed doors.

The fragile girl cries.

Weeks fly by,
the little girl is happy,
ecstatic, actually.

Then the father leads her
again
leaves her.


The old man is too greedy,
this time around.

In his lap,
hushed news,
under the scratchy blanket,
the grandmother a mere six feet away.

His hands play under her lace,
the frills and colors blending together.

He is enjoying himself,
carrying on a conversation about
daily life.

The wife takes no notice,
as he slips his zipper down.

The old man,
now exposed.

He guides her fingers,
delicately and slow.

Up and down,
over and over,
again and again.

The little girl,
nauseated,
looks away.

Ashamed.

She learned for herself,
this silly little boy lesson.

He’s not quite finished,
but stops in time to control himself.

The grandmother suspects nothing.

He’s done well.

“You’re my little angel.
I love you, you know that?”

Love-
The little girl considers this new threat to be,
love. 

She cries into the plastic-coated pillow.

The old man finally understands,
he’s hurt her.

It’s over.

Years perish.
Memories leak out to few,
and even fewer start to suspect a change.


He’s dying.

Paralyzed on one side,
mentally not capable of stringing together
second grade sentences.


He calls for his ‘Angel’.

She hears him over miles,
of phone wires.

The sick voice of an uncaring father
beckons her to the grandfather’s side.


Faithful.
She comes,
not on wings,
only mere feet and nervousness.


Clinging to his cold,
deadly fingers.

He doesn’t seem so much like a villain,
only a helpless old man caught in the grip of karma.


He said he wouldn’t die until he saw his angel.
Final words are not remembered,
or even taken into conscience.

At the funeral,
the girl cries.


Her nightmare is over,
but no one knows the truth.

His life is read off of note cards,
with positive remarks
leaking off the tear stained edges.

They don’t know.










She’ll never tell.

Her words to his family will go unnoticed anyway.

Why bother with what has been left in the past?