Tuesday Writing Prompt (May 20, 2008)

The Angel

It is a very strange feeling, one that I haven't experienced before. That is clearly my jacket. I put it on this morning, long sleeved and black leather, with our club's angel insignia. And my watch, the Corum Bubble with the roulette-wheel face. And my hand, laying upwardly open, fingers moving slightly, my wedding ring sparkling from the early evening sunlight.

I didn't see the tree across the road until after the turn. Pine trees everywhere, actually, but I can't smell their fragrance. I can't breathe in, in fact. I try, but it is like I have no breath. I can move my lips, but I can emit no sound. I can look about -- but I cannot turn my head. Why am I laying over there, but looking at myself from over here? How can I be looking across the road at myself laying down . . . and at my Harley, laying sideways. At the bottom of my boots, with their nearly new, barely scuffed soles.

My body feels light and tingly, but my vision is clear. My body is there, but my ponytail is here, laying long and braided on the road before my eyes, under my chin, pointing toward my feet on the other side of the road. I . . . I don't understand. How can this be? Am I an angel?