She came in, and the room lit up. As if she was home, she sat herself in the sofa which is cornering the one I always sit in. I went to the kitchen, to boil water for tea. As if she was home, she took of her shoes, and rested on the arm of the sofa. The cats, who seemed even more attracted to her, ran towards her and purred. As if she was at home. There she sat, the woman who inspires the writer in me. I asked how her night had been, and why she came in after midnight. Ah, went to inner with colleagues, but it was to early to go home yet. She had seen there was light in my room still. She had driven past, before sending me a message. For a second she appeared overly tired, when she leaned her head over her hand on the pillow. I asked how good the wine was. A glass or three, pretty nice. I thought so. The ring on her finger reflected the light of the lamp behind us. Beautiful blue rock. The size of my thumb next to it, when I took her hand. I don’t think she ever understood why I always looked at the rings at her fingers. We spoke about other things again. How things were with me. Not that good, actually. Sometimes still hard, after everything that had happened. She knew what I meant. And she came as if called upon. Literally. I had always known she was an Angel, I thought. But let’s discuss other things. The drag that daily work can be, the joy of a Saturday night, because you don’t have to get up early on Sunday morning. I was still holding her hand. She asked about the poem I had promised her long ago. My thumb slowly slid over her fingers. She was always wearing other rings. Maybe one day, always the same. Whether the poem I had promised her was ready yet, she smiled. I had been thinking about it, but nothing solid on paper yet. The water cooker called with a click, and loyal to my duty towards guests, I went to the kitchen.
When I came back, she was sleeping. Her head still on her hand. As if she was home. It was strange to me, but at that moment, I realized, the word home was just a word to me. Except when she was there. Only then, it felt like home for me. I forgot the thought when I looked at her again. With her legs pulled up, a purring cat at her feet. Overpowered by the wine, or tiredness? Or because she felt at home? There she lay, a sleeping angel, with folded wings, the sleep of peace. I put the tea silently on the table, and looked for my instruments. Pen, paper. I took my place on my sofa again, and started scribbling. But angels have an instinct, which no one can judge, and unexpectedly she opened her eyes while I was staring at her. She asked what I was doing. Writing that poem, of course. Suddenly she stood up, and walked around the table. To read what I had written already. I protested, it wasn’t suited to see it before it was finished. She sat next to me, and lay herself against me. Her head, her hand on my chest. I showed her the scribbles, and felt her smile. Just some testing with rhymes and such. Nothing more. She didn’t answer. Her breathing was calm, almost unable to be heard. Her hand was on my heart. That was the moment, when I realized, that even Angels need sleep. Staring at my sheet of paper, I got enlightened. That the most beautiful stories can’t be made up. That people say more, by talking without words. That muses, just by doing absolutely nothing, can say a lot. That with no words, this moment could be described. And that sometimes, you just can be in the most beautiful stories. I switched of the light with a stretched arm, and put my writing sheets on the table. Words were useless anyway. There was only silence to be enjoyed. But sometimes, to enjoy silence alone, you have to be with two.

Yves Vandevoort, February 27, 2007