Voice of an Angel

Overnight a light snow fell creating a winter whitened world where ice and lace graced the bare trees surrounding the cabin. In the past she’d often entice me to walk with her when there was new fallen snow, I dressed her warmly and taking her hand, we walked beneath the crystal and powder covered canopy. I was lost in the beauty of the moment, while my wife was lost, somewhere inside of herself. As we explored, I noticed a stand of pines behind the cabin.

Nearly forty years ago, I said, "I Carl, take thee, Sybil…."

It had been years since I’d decorated the house for Christmas and even longer since we’d brought a live pine into our home. I felt that it was time to do it again; after all, this might be our last holiday together.

It was December 1976. We’d just moved into this rustic cabin. It was the home place where my wife was raised. It was a long shot, but her Alzheimer’s was progressing rapidly. I thought if she was in familiar surroundings it might slow the invasive nature of the disease. It wasn’t called Alzheimer’s back then. It was called hardening of the arteries or dementia.

I could see it all slipping away, she scarcely recognized me as her husband. She’d been forgetting things for a long time and eventually she retreated into a shell of silence. We still had occasional moments of intimacy. I would sit beside her, hold her in my arms, and stroke the hair which had turned from gold into silver. I would remind her of the things I loved about her and memories which we shared.

Helping her to dress, eat, and wash controlled my life. She had given so much of her life to me, what could I do but share mine? It was very stressful at times, but she was the love of my life.

Seeing the group of young pine trees we turned back to the cabin. I unlocked the shed, removed a hatchet from my toolbox, and led her back to the small grove. She stood nearby watching as I chopped at the tree. Snow sifted onto me with each swing of the blade. The evergreen groaned once, then fell. I tucked the hatchet behind my belt, grasped a branch of the tree with one hand and took her hand with the other, towing the tree behind us. Our progress back to the house was slow; stopping to catch my breath several times.

I helped her climb the steps onto the porch, then pulled the tree onto the veranda, I leaned it by the side of the door and made a hasty trip to the shed to fetch the box of ornaments and the tree stand. Leading her inside, I helped her remove her coat and gloves, then sat her in her favorite chair. Trading the hatchet for a saw, I trimmed the pine’s trunk to fit the stand and brought it inside. The tree was soon covered with lights and ornaments. It looked so bright and festive. She watched as I worked, but I was unsure what registered in her brain.

I was in the kitchen making cups of cocoa for us when I heard her stirring. I needed to check to see what she was doing and to be sure that she was safe. She was standing and staring at the tree. I watched her lift a tentative finger to touch one of the ornaments. I held my breath. It was the first Christmas bulb that we bought after our wedding. Our names Carl and Sybil were painted on its smooth, silver sides. A light flashed from her normally dull eyes.

Touching the bright, shiny orb, she glanced around. A vaguely familiar voice spoke. It was rusty from many years of disuse. “Where’s Carl? I love him so.” The voice stopped as suddenly as it started. The flicker of light in her eyes went out, but an angel had spoken.