Voice of an Angel

Overnight a light snow had fallen creating a winter whitened world. Snow and ice graced the bare trees surrounding our cabin. In the past my wife often enticed me to walk with her in the newly fallen snow. I dressed her warmly, then taking her hand we walked beneath a crystal and powder canopy. I was lost in its beauty, while my wife was lost somewhere inside herself. As we explored, I noticed a stand of pines behind the cabin.

It was December 1976. We’d just moved into this rustic cabin. It was my wife’s home-place where she was raised. It was a long shot, but with her Alzheimer’s progressing rapidly. I thought if she was back in familiar surroundings it might slow the invasiveness of the disease. It wasn’t called Alzheimer’s back then. It was called hardening of the arteries or dementia. It had been years since I’d decorated our home for Christmas and even longer since we’d brought a live pine into our house. I felt it was time to do it again; after all, this might be our last holiday together.

Nearly forty years before, I said, "I Carl, take thee, Sybil…." I could see it all slipping away, she scarcely recognized me as her husband. She’d been forgetting things for a long time until finally she’d 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 that had turned from gold to silver. I‘d remind her of the things I loved about her and recall our memories we’d shared.

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

Seeing several young pines as 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 down 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. Progress to the house was slow. I stopped to catch my breath several times.

I helped her climb the steps onto the porch, then tugged the tree onto the veranda. Leaning it by the side of the door, I made a hasty trip to the shed to fetch a box of ornaments and the tree stand. Leading her inside, I helped her remove her boots and coat, then sat her in her favorite chair. I trimmed the pine’s trunk to fit into the stand, bringing 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 had registered in her brain.

I was in the kitchen making cups of cocoa when I heard her stirring. I needed to see what she was doing to be sure that she was safe. She was standing; 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’d bought after our wedding. Our names Carl and Sybil were painted on its smooth, silver sides. A light flashed in her normally dull eyes.

Touching the 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.