Wishing for a Little Cherubim

by Polaroid

I dream of auburn scenarios and fluffy white clouds and the thought of being able to see a cherubim or a full-grown angel emerging from behind the canopy of clouds. I fancy the saccharine smile and the kindness in gentle eyes that reflect a soft-spoken personality. I love taking pictures of sunsets and running waters and of beauty in its sincerity and truth.

Quite mushy, aren’t they? Just a little. These are the thoughts of a 15-year-old who seems to have become a little girl once more.

I could be dreamy, a little to wistful for my age, and yet, I must admit that I have met an angel—an angel on earth, that’s what I’m talking about, and I suppose you know what I mean.

I remember having a little chat with the angel when I was twelve, but right then I didn’t see him for what he truly was. What I saw was another twelve-year-old with a conventional camera dangling from his neck and talked about the inclination of laying down his own life for the welfare of other people. I had been taken aback by the precise desires of this young person, opposite myself at the coffee table, for he had been as sensitive as he had never seemed to be, while I was as cavalier as I have pretended not to be.

For once, I heard the clicking of the camera and the soft chuckle of the angel as I looked at the serene face, happy to have an addition to his collection of photos. I rolled my eyes, thinking about the stack of pictures piled up in his bedroom or else plastered on his walls. He was a good one. He had been better than any other photographer I’ve ever known, what with his knack of capturing beauty and splendor so perfectly with the skillful look at every angle to shoot.

What is comical to note is that while he was the photographer, the prominent one who loved to capture beautiful things, his face had been more captivating than the faces of those he captured with his camera. I’m guessing he hadn’t realized that thought as much as I did.

He also had this real talent of tossing pebbles into the river and making them bounce a few times before they vanished underwater. I tried for a few times, under his scrutiny, and found myself admitting resentfully that I couldn’t do it. My pebbles just disappeared without bouncing even for once. He just laughed, and I got amused for it had always been better to look intently at him than try any other gibberish that I might as well forget. It seemed to me that while he didn’t just waste the pebbles by the riverbank, he was showing a way in which to let out one’s sentiments and chucking the pebbles into the river like one is flipping away one’s problems in life.

He loved art. And by all means, it loved him back. He twiddled the paintbrush with his hands and surprisingly, any canvas he ever dealt with captured the radiance of whatever he wanted to showcase.

He believed so much in fate, trusting in another pair of artistic hands designing the tapestry of our lives. He had so much faith—so much more than what one can aspire to have and work for.

Unfortunately, my angel couldn’t make it long enough to fulfill each and every one of his dreams.

He struggled to carry on, but as he did so, he made himself compliant to whatever has been laid for him to endure. He was so frail and he suffered much misery.

And it hurt me so much to give him a hug and tell him to hold on when all I really wanted was for him to let go, so that he won’t be hard up anymore.

Each day made it harder for him to breathe, and while I still saw the same saccharine smile and still adored it, it made me shed tears to see him in pain. I still saw the audacious twelve-year-old and I certainly wished that he was never that brave. I wished that he would be cowardly and that he would let go.

I couldn’t say that he lost, though, for he fought long enough, not for himself but for those people who seemed not to be able to move along if he were to fade away.

For the last time, I wiped tears from my eyes and whispered to his ears that I was willing to let him go. After all, I always knew that he would be an angel. Even with his eyes closed, I knew that he heard me. For that was what he did.

He let go and went away into a place where he truly belonged, among flutters of wings and radiant smiles, perhaps of a little cherubim or archangels welcoming him as one of them.

I remember that fateful day, in my chat with the angel, what he said to me…”It’s not wrong to hold on to a glimmer of hope but sometimes, it’s better to just let go and move along. So you, you move along even if I fall.”

I know that he looks down upon me as I make this loving memoir. But it just hurts me to remember that I told him to let go, when all I ever wanted was for him to hold on…