It was the only place I ever really felt at peace.  None in my family understood it.  They all believed that their religions lay in their hearts and not in any buildings, but for some reason I always stood out.  Maybe because in that place I didn’t have to worry about what I was going to do with my life.  I’d always believed that God would show me the way.

Sophia sighed and set her pen down on the page, pushed it into the binding crease of the journal, and closed it.  She rarely went home these days.  In a few short weeks she’d be found bleeding on one of God’s pews without any clues to guide her family, but in this moment no one could know that. 

The breeze stirred her long blond hair across her hazel eyes, features she’d inherited from her father.  For a moment, she was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice it.  The journal and the church had become the staples that kept her life together especially in recent days—especially the journal.  She’d taken particular care to record events as a historian would, with as much detail as possible.  Times, places, people, people’s features, scenery, mood, feelings; it was all meticulously noted.  It was necessary because things were changing.  Not all things were simple to record.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the book, tightening; thumbnail dragged across the brown leather cover; eyes watering, narrowing; the serenity intruded on by anger.  In a rush it was flung open once more and the previous page was torn violently from within.  “It’s all wrong.”  Sophia muttered fiercely as she ripped the page into smaller pieces and threw them to the wind so that it would carry those pieces far, far from her.

How do you explain to another person—“No.”  She scratched out the line and tried again, the words gradually coming more and more easily to her. 

If I don’t figure out how to fix it soon, I’ll stop it by any means necessary.

Sophia closed the journal at that and locked it, then tucked it and the pen away into her bag.

I opened my eyes and there before me was the end of my life.  There were no flashes of scenes past or things that could be.  I did not envision my children or a moment with my lover.  It was a blinding light that erased everything as if it had never been; erased doubt; erased longing; erased desire.  I thought then that I would soon be walking with God with my very next step.

Those instants are so easy to fantasize, romanticize.  Giving it all up for the ones you love, to protect the world, for the moral right.  This is why war continues, because we all have that longing for the meaning that such sacrifice can ascribe our lives that peace cannot.  I think everyone deep down longs for that one defining moment where they can immortalize their souls forever with a single act.  An act that would bring people to their knees, bring tears to their eyes, lay silence like blankets upon their hearts just at the mere thought of it.

I was no different.  And the life that I lead now taught me my error.  I thought I would die a glorious death that would forever immortalize my mortal soul in a world of angels and demons with powers I could never fathom.  It is shameful to admit, but I gave up everything in that moment not for the ones I loved or for any noble inclination of virtue.  I gave up everything for vanity.

How ironic, then, that I gained it all back and fled from it.

I stayed as long as I possibly could.  Every day was like a twisting coil building tension.  Every doctor’s visit, every parent-teacher conference, every load of laundry… A little over twenty years, it was no wonder when the taut line was struck how the wire recoiled--cracked.  Ever since that day, my father had nicknamed me his wild angel.  I fled from that too.

I know I hurt them, hurt them all, but I didn’t know what else I could do.  I had no other choice, you see, I had to leave.  I couldn’t stay there any longer.  After that day I was not who I had been, I was someone else.  They say that when an individual experiences a loss, that individual often has trouble maintaining friendships formed before that loss and tends to shift into new friendships formed afterward.  It’s too hard, you see, to look into those faces, those eyes, and tell them over and over again that you’re just not the same anymore.

Ambiguous losses are those that lack clarity.  They cannot be defined or explained; there is no reason that can be attributed to them, and it is this uncertainty that creates a space between ourselves and others that often cannot be bridged.

Reconciliation to most means atoning for a wrong or making things right with someone.  There is an implied hierarchy of right and wrong, moral and immoral, or my personal distaste: should.  In Theology, Reconciliation describes a change in the relationship between man and God.  This change recognizes the capacity  and the inevitability of acceptance in nature, in ourselves.  I believe that God exists within our innermost feelings: in our wrath and our love, in our hurt and our healing, and that to be closer to this we must first submerge ourselves in it.

She had been driving her family for weeks now, at only--and recently so--ten years of age.  Their nerves frayed, they asked the small girl time and time again what made this sudden mission so dire, so particular?  And time and time again she would remind them, "It's important."

So it was that Damien found himself out again another frozen night, lips chapped, one hand stuffed in his jacket and the other clutched onto her growing hand as they entered yet another shop.  Her face was not the beaming visage of a child expecting a toy, no, this was the determined puckering of a purpose.

Her brother dragged his feet behind them.  "Soph... it's cold."  His complaints always fell on deaf ears.  Before she had turned vicious glares upon him that now trickled down into slight huffs.  Why drag him along anyway?  This was her vendetta, not his.  Sometimes he got out of it by staying home with Mom, but unfortunately for him she had work to attend to this snowy week before Christmas.

Little boots trudging across the carpet of the shop left clumps of moisture and snow in their wake.  The floor had previously been spotless; business had been slow this evening.  The shopkeeper, an older woman with thin-rimmed glasses and silver-black hair, watched her new patron with a knowing eye.  Children like these didn't often come through here, most of her patrons were art collectors or families looking to spruce up homes for sale.  For what child would go out of his or her way to look for antiques?

She smiled at the exhaust in who she guessed to be the girl's father, "This is not your first stop, I take it?"

He chuckled and nodded as he watched his daughter scrounging every last item, his hand absently touching the hair of the boy beside him who looked rather cross though increasingly curious.  "Afraid not.  Dunno what she's after, but none of us is about to stand in her way."

The boy rolled his eyes.

"I see," the shopkeeper replied.  "No hints or anything?"

"None, she's dragged us to all kinds of stores saying she's gotta find something.  Poor Jay here has had to come on more trips than he's a mind for."

"Well then, Jay, there's a collection of Marvel action figures in good condition I just had brought in to me today.  You seem like a man with a fine eye for such things, could you perhaps look them over for me and help me decide a good value?"

His eyes still retained that bored look, but at the same time his posture seemed to indicate that he was grateful for something to do other than stand around and wait on his crazy sister.  She set out the collection for him to handle at his own discretion, trusting in the awe of children for such things that he would do no harm here.  Damien nodded his thanks, glancing over to where his daughter now rooted through a bin of old toys.

"Sophie!"  He scolded gently, "You can't make a mess of this lady's store like that."

"But I think I found it!"

He blinked, glancing at the object her hands so delicately extricated from the bin.  It was a simple doll with a mane of fiery red hair, aged over many years.  The facial features that had been hand-painted long ago were worn away; the gown that had once been white faded to an aged sepia tone; most telling of all was the tattered wing sticking out of her back awkwardly.

"...oh honey, what about the others?"  Damien sighed, glancing at all the perfectly good dolls that had been discarded carelessly all about the floor around her feet.  At a second glance, however, he realized that his daughter had at least taken the time to lay them out neatly so that none of them was damaged.  He was grateful he wouldn't be taking home a plethora of dolls to his wife to explain.

"No, this one.  It's important."  The look on her face was obstinate.  What could a girl want with a torn and faded doll?  What could have made her want it so bad that she'd spent weeks searching for it?  What made this doll different from its much nicer counterparts?

Sophia's face was touched by a hint of sadness, however, as she gently caressed the tattered gown and wing, barely hanging on by a thread.  Though it somehow matched the description of what she had been looking for, it was in worse condition than she'd hoped for.  Her little frown creased her father's eyebrows.  He couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.  "What's wrong?"

"It's this one... but she's not whole."

The shopkeeper had wandered close and now lent her voice, "She's been very lonely, so she's frayed a little.  Not many little girls come looking just for dolls like her."

"But it's this one.  I know it."  Sophia looked on the verge of tears.  Her mouth opened and closed as if lacking the words to describe what she knew in her heart.

By this time her brother had wandered over with an action figure in his hands to show his sister.  He frowned at the look on her face.  "That's the one, Soph?"

She nodded.

"Well then, we just fix her up, right?"  Damien kept silent.  He had expected his son to tease Sophia about the prize but had instead found Jay surprisingly unbothered by its poor condition.  "Everything's still there, it just needs some patching.  We can do that, Mom's good with that stuff."

Their father smiled and gathered the dolls his daughter had sprawled about, carefully returning them to where they had been stored.  "I'm sorry about this," he offered to the store owner as his children happily chattered plans about how they would fix up this doll.  "Thank you for being nice to 'em."  Then he reached for his wallet, "How much for the doll and the action figure?"

The woman smiled, "A good home and periodic reports."

"Huh?" Damien's eyebrows furrowed. 

"It's not often I get good souls like you coming in here looking to give old things a purpose again."  The next, she offered to Sophia in a soft tone, "I want to see what you make of that doll, so be sure to bring it back and show me and tell me all about it.  Deal?"

Sophia smiled big and nodded emphatically, clutching the doll to her chest.

"She's really got it in her blood."  Seyona commented as she watched her daughter set to work on the doll day after day.  The small, clumsy fingers worked diligently--more than was expected of a child her age--to restore the doll.  Each day the project progressed, it became apparent that this was not just some plaything that Sophia would drag through the mud like most of her toys.  This was was precious to her, and her mother wondered that they might have to go find a display case for her when this was finished.

Sophia kept her fingers carefully bandaged so that the numerous pinpricks did not bleed onto her precious idol.  There wasn't much time left so she hurried as best she could.  Even her brother seemed to sense her urgency; where normally he would have tormented her out of sheer sibling rivalry he now waited in the wings or occasionally offered to help bring thread or ribbon or whatever else she asked for.  No one understood her hurry at first, but they all supported her endeavor nonetheless.

Christmas Eve had arrived and the family prepared to receive a plethora of guests--friends they had made over the course of many struggles and many years.  Father Collins, Seyona's father, barely managed to fit through the entryway with his armful of presents.  His grandson, Jadyn, was more than happy to help him bring them all in and set them under the tree.  A few members of his service also stopped by to offer their well-wishes, but did not stay long.  Emily, who had taken them in back when they'd had nothing, filled the house with various weaving scents of culinary excellence; her cooking had always been notoriously desired especially within this family.  The shapeshifter, Alycion, whom Seyona had touched with her empathy and concern, still wore Seyona's offered shawl as she briefly hugged and greeted the entire family.

By then, Sophia had finished her project and sat perched in the windowsill with wide eyes.  She peered out into the snow as a house cat might scour the landscape for mice, tail twitching.  She wrung her hands impatiently, her fingertips damaged.  Jay sometimes sat with her for a bit, sometimes dragged her away to say hi to everyone, and sometimes left her alone in her vigil.

It had grown dark and many of the household were either preparing to go or preparing to settle in for the night.  They had mostly gathered by the hearth in the living room to talk, but none protested that the tree had not yet been lit.  In the weeks prior to this night, her parents had explained her steadfast devotion to this project and somehow the tree and her doll were related.  There was one last thing that needed to happen and all they could do was wait.

"Sophia, honey, it's nearly time for bed.  Santa can't come if you're not asleep.  Your brother will be sore if he misses our house this year."

Sophia smiled up at her mom, who was pulling her hair back from her face with her fingernails lightly.  "I know, Mama.  It's important."

Seyona looked out the window down the dark walkway leading up to their home and smiled, knowing that soon her daughter would perk up with delight.  She was late every year, but she had never missed a special holiday like this one.  It took a minute, but Sophia shrieked out loud when she saw the familiar figure approaching.  Damien had smiled also, knowing what the sound meant instantly, and he and his son headed to the front door to greet their last guest.

"Please excuse me," she began as she had every year and brushed the snow from her things.  Seyona hugged her friend before taking the woman's coat, then her family did so in turn.  Sophia had mysteriously vanished.

"Welcome, El.  We figured you'd be right on time as you always are." Damien jibed playfully.  Though always appearing late, she always arrived at the same time every year.

Eliana removed her cap to reveal a shock of red hair that bounced along her shoulders, her milky eyes resting on each member of the family in greeting.  After conversing with each in turn, she noted the absence of one.  As people began to drift back toward the fireplace, Eliana caught Seyona's arm.  "Where is Sophia?"

"Oh... she was here just a moment ago.  She'd been waiting for you, I can't imagine where she's gone off to."  She turned then to call out to her daughter, who for a moment did not reply.

A minute later the little girl came rushing out from somewhere in the house--though she very carefully took the stairs--with an object bundled very carefully like a baby in her arms.  It was in the shape of a doll; everyone gathered turned to look at each other wondering if perhaps this had been the girl's burning project.

Sophia took Eliana by the hand and led her into the room with the Christmas tree before turning to face her, everyone watching.  Eliana sensed this was important to the little girl and knelt down to her level.  "What is it, Sophia?"

"Um... can you help me put th'a angel up?"  The tiny bundle was offered up shyly.

The brusque woman gingerly accepted the bundle for a moment, looking up and noting that the tree had not yet been finished.  The top lay completely bare.  Why did you wait for me?"  She queried, genuinely confused.  "I always arrive rather late and your parents could have easily helped you."

"It's important."  Was all she said.  Her eyes were fixated on the bundle.

Eliana nodded after a glance toward the rest of the family and turned her attentions to unwrapping the carefully wrapped swaddling.  The figure she found inside was not the typical perfectly porcelain angels that families bought from stores but a lovingly crafted original replica of... herself.

"What is this..." The former angel could not find the words to speak as her fingers traced over the bright red hair that had been left long but had obviously been brushed thoroughly; the soft white gown that bore the stitches quite obviously of a child; the single wing now strongly protruding from her back, not corrected but strengthened; the re-touched face with eyes left pupil-less and milky like her own; but most touching of all: the bright smile painted with a noticeably concentrated effort.

She wasn't sure how, but she suddenly found herself with silent tears streaming down her cheeks.  Sophia's eyes widened and she looked to her mom in panic, afraid she'd upset their close family friend.  Seyona smiled reassuringly at her daughter and at once the girl recalled a memory of her and her mom talking about happy tears.  So were these happy tears?

Eliana drew the girl close with an arm around her shoulders and whispered a soft thank you into her ear before standing to alight the top of the tree with this treasure.  Jadyn plugged in the lights as she did so and for a while the whole family enjoyed the finished project.

Seyona found her close friend sitting on the windowsill where Sophia had sat waiting for her before, long after the kids had been put to bed, staring up at the angel atop the tree.  Eliana was silent for a long time even after Seyona had sat down beside her, but after a while she took her friend's hand and grasped it tight.

"I saw the cuts all over her fingers... did she make that herself?"

"Turned down every angel we showed her for weeks and became intent with this desire to find something she wouldn't explain to any of us.  She worked on it for days and never asked for help.  Damien told me when they found it it was all beat up, and her brother urged her to mend it."

"But why?"

Seyona looked away from the angel and straight into the other angel's eyes, "Because it's important."  She said, repeating her daughter's insistent words.

"I don't understand."  Eliana turned to meet her gaze.  There were plenty of explanations as to why the children wouldn't go this far to create such a valuable, to wait for her so late into the evening.  Her appearance had always been intimidating and her demeanor tended to be awkward and aloof.  She had always been patient with the children but never overly kind or friendly as their grandfather was.

"Sometimes our hearts remind us there are things we've neglected..."  Her voice trailed off, unsure of how to finish.  Sophia's blunt insistence seemed the best and most complete answer there was to give for her actions.

"All this time I'd been trying to fulfill a role and prove my existence, and here... all this time... it had already been recognized."  Seyona yawned and after a while left her to her thoughts.

We are not saved because we are worthy, we are saved because we are loved.

It was her favorite passage.

"Well... damn."  A shocking, curly redhead exhaled loudly, blowing wisps of smoke into swirls around her face; the smoking had become a recent past time.  She bumped her forehead against the palm of her hand and pinched a cigarette between her index and middle finger.  Ashes fell listlessly onto the bar counter.  Her eyes had dark circles like she hadn't slept in days, which did little to detract from the disheveled appearance of blue jeans and dark green, short-sleeved hoodie. 

The bartender offered another glass but she waved it away, her mind still hung up on a previous confrontation.

"Fuck you, Eliana.  You don't know shit!"

Jadyn had stood defiant in his grandfather's church valiantly defending himself from her barrage of blunt cruelty as the rest of the family looked on, Sophia's body limp where it lay prone and lifeless on a nearby pew.  At least his mother hadn't been there to witness the animosity.

"...you're just trying to regain God's favor again by doting on our family all the time!"

Eliana shook her head and mumbled a reply under her breath, "Ah... far from it, kiddo."

"Rough night?"

She glanced up at the bartender--quite popular with her patrons for her spunky personality but more so with her male patrons for her enormous bust--and forced a smile.  "You could say that."

"This stuff always passes."

"...that it does."

"It's that boy, isn't it?"

"Am I so predictable?"

"Not like you used to be, Winston."

"Don't call me that."

The bartender laughed aloud, her voice a high shrill that was disturbing to anyone that didn't get to know her.  It grew less irritating over time; the men just let their eyes wander to the small heart-shaped tattoo that stuck out like a sore thumb in her cleavage.  Sheila didn't mind, that's what it was there for after all.  "My point stands, sugar."

"Point taken.  May I have another?  Perhaps I can construct a fort."

Sheila tossed her hair back over her shoulder and burst into laughter again.  Bright dirty blond curls bounced across her shoulders gaily, accentuated by the dark too-thickly-applied mascara she applied every night before work.  Though a bit... robust, Eliana found that she appreciated the woman's temperament and enjoyed her company.  She was as good a friend as Seyona, though much more carefree.  Their banter was their trademark. 

There would be no retort to Eliana's previous quip for a while, though, as a customer was calling for another beer. In Sheila's wake, a single glass of scotch appeared in the space before her.  She tapped the tip of her cigarette against the rim and let the ashes fizzle out, ruining the drink.

"...El?"

The former fallen glanced out of the corner of her eye and spotted Seyona's son standing in the doorway of the bar, staring at her awkwardly as the door chime quieted.  He stepped inside and let the door rattle shut behind him, then approached her.  "What are you doing here?  I never thought I'd find you of all people in here."

"I suppose we all have our vices, don't we?"  She broke his gaze and stared back into the scotch, taking a drag on the cigarette.  "Have a seat."

Jadyn pulled up a stool beside her and turned his gaze to the counter, perhaps hoping to burn a hole in the wood with his sheer focus.  Their fight earlier had not quite passed yet and the two were loath to converse lest the emotions flare up once more.  Somehow, though, alcohol magically appeared before him without him ever seeing the bartender.  El glanced down the way in time to catch a wink from Sheila.  The bitch.

She hesitated a moment, lifting her head slightly to brush her hair back with the pinky and ring finger of the hand holding the cigarette.  Somehow it felt like it should have been some cold winter night, with snow billowing at the window and people in scarves irritating the rest of the patrons by opening the door and letting in a chill wind.  But it was a typical mild night like any other.  People chattered and the television blared stories of predictions about the new president, someone shouted an order, another group burst into laughter over some inside joke. 

Seyona would have known what to do right now; she would have known what to say.

"...how's your sister?"

"No change."

"I see."  They lapsed into a weird silence again.

Someone had managed to snag the remote when Sheila wasn't looking and turned the channel for content other than politics.  Various channels flitted on and off as the patron had trouble deciding, though he did pause on a news story about local unexplained murders.

"They ever find out who did that yet?"  A woman at his table asked, eyes fixed on the story.

The news reporter described the autopsy reports, instances where it seemed the victims had just shut down like they'd run out of power.  Even though they were found in suspicious locations, there were no signs of a struggle, no wounds, and no symptoms of other diseases found yet.  It was starting to be called into question whether these were really murders or cases of an unidentified disease outbreak.  The health department had been contacted for more information but nothing had been disclosed yet.

The guy with the remote shrugged and changed the channel, finally settling on a football game.  A few of his buddies around the bar gave a raucous cheer.

Eventually, Eliana turned to look at Jadyn's face.  She'd never been honest with him about herself, partially due to inexperience in doing so, but she supposed it was about time she quit with the high and mighty has all the answers facade.  "Jadyn, I'm sorry for what I said back there.  You didn't deserve that."

He did turn to look at that, narrowing his eyes.  "What?"

"I said I'm sorry."  Her voice was thick with regret.

Jay continued to search her face as if the explanation were written there to be found if he looked hard enough.  She didn't hide anything from him; her mixed bag of feelings were displayed in her features.  Confusion, loss, stress, doubt... and the need to light up again.  She sat up straight and dropped her used up cigarette into her ashtray cocktail and then pulled out the pack, offering one to Jadyn.  He took one for himself, pulled out a lighter as she grabbed one for herself, and lit them both up.

Jay raised an eyebrow like his father usually did, "No need to waste a good drink like that, you know."

She smiled and tapped the ashes into the glass again, "I was trying to make a point to a friend is all."  They both enjoyed their vices momentarily, letting the stress melt away. 

Then, "I don't know if I can do this."

"...do what?"  He asked, not having a clue what she meant.

"...this." She replied, as if that would resolve all his queries.  After a moment, she continued.  "Before, I really did have all the answers.  Everything was His work, and now, it's all on my shoulders."

Jay kept very quiet.

"I liked having all the answers for you, being this fountain of wisdom that would solve all your problems.  I did that to your mom and dad, too.  Sophia never let me in, but I was okay with that because I... I had you, I guess.  As strange as that sounds.  After falling again, it was so difficult to adjust to human life.  You all teased me about being a robot... but that's all I really knew how to be."

"El..."

"That's why I said the things I did.  I thought I was doing good, rationally... logically solving the problem by putting it in front of you.  But now I see I just made things worse.  I didn't even realize... I don't know if I can cope with not knowing how to fix this.  I don't see the end in sight, I have no answers..."  Eliana would cry no tears as she grappled with these difficult emotions and it was then that he noticed she wasn't wearing her sunglasses or her contacts.  The milky, pupil-less eyes were far from empty though.  Her head drooped into her hands, her hair falling like a curtain, the cigarette clattering against the counter and rolling absently toward her glass.

"How do you face a future you can't see?"

"I enjoyed it, I really did. I began to realize how simple life could be if one had a regular routine to follow with fixed hours and a fixed salary and very little original thinking to do. The life of a writer is absolute hell compared with the life of a businessman. He has to make his own hours and if he doesn't go to his desk at all there is nobody to scold him. If he is a writer of fiction he lives in a world of fear. Each new day demands new ideas and he can never be sure whether he is going to come up with them or not. Two hours of writing fiction leaves this particular writer absolutely drained. For those two hours he's been miles away, he has been somewhere else, in a different place with totally different people, and the effort of swimming back into normal surroundings is very great. It is almost a shock. The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whiskey than is good for him.  He does it to give himself faith, hope, and courage. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom."

"He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it."

-Roald Dahl, Boy pg 171

Writing is the one place deep inside a person that no one can touch, its wellspring a hidden lockbox full of vast insights, thoughts, ideas, innermost feelings... To tap into that place is in itself a miracle, to draw out from it is near-catastrophic.  I think that's why writers are so explosive.  We live lives of falsehoods oftentimes  and the quartering of identities can drive a person to madness such that one day I find myself in horrible misery and the next total bliss.  Mine is a life of chaos--a fey creature poised to dart on a single disturbance, straining every muscle to turn away from a rejected inevitable reality. I've been told that I am both difficult and easy at the same time.  However, at the end of the day, when I'm alone with a pen and a journal, I know in that moment what existence is mine.

  I consider myself a writer.  I follow no standards and I have no certifications.  I have no proof of my belief, hence it may perhaps be merited more on faith than knowledge.  But there is no denying the loss in the page, the scenes of the mind that appear in every object around me like ghosts, buttons scattered across the days...  Clawing obsessively to find that single thought is engorging, a necessary staple of life.  Often it is fruitless; all it needs is just one.  One single thought.  Insatiable drive to reach that one single expression that brings an elation that none but a crafter can crave.  There is nobility in this; nothing for me can match the sheer exaltation of expression of the intangible--ideas so beautiful that literally wrack my emotions from my very frame.  Nothing is so empowering as to sob my whole heart unabashedly.

Nice to meet you.