Janet had stared at the angel for a full hour in silence. Carved and polished, it didn’t match anything in her house. She turned it on her mother’s kitchen table to view it from a different angle. Her hope of finding a glimmer of stylistic redemption passed.
“No better,” she said aloud to herself. “I guess you’re not telling me more, either?” she asked.
The angel had been, per her mother, handed down from generation to generation when the first daughter conceived the first daughter. She at first wondered why she’d never heard of this angel but knew the answer. She came from a long line of interesting women.
She wiped it down with a paper towel and noticed ‘malum animus deus’ etched into the base.
“Something about God? How original on an angel.”
She’d never known her grandmother and hoped maybe this little heirloom would conjure memories.
“I know,” she said with her hand on her belly.
As she stepped over her mother to leave, she realized her daughter would never know her grandmother, either.