I'll call him Saint Timothy. I'd bump into him behind the barn, where he likes to smoke a cigarette and stare at the Doodlebugs. He looks old and frail, and he has the cough, and those wings of his appear always to be molting. Which is very unattractive.
Its been dry, so I exchange a greeting that verges on impolite. But mostly I prefer to avoid the Almighty and his Angels, which could be an error in my relationship with the mystery of being. An error which once might have reinvigorated Saint Timothy. Put spunk in his stem. Return him to preaching and healthier habits.
Then yesterday afternoon Saint Timothy was in tears. He was sobbing there by the rolls of maybe useful wire, beside the old red riding mower that one day might be fixed. And he was muttering on about being banished from his red bar stool in the recreation hall, where Angels are apparently permitted to drink beer and look at girls. Which surprised me too.
"I used to have meaning!," Saint Timothy told me. "Now I might as well be a virtue." I wanted to just get on about my business, and it's a pity angels do not photograph well, because when they cry a person really does feel sorry for them.
And certainly it's a mistake to ask an Angel what he's talking about, because they can ramble on in that round about and well modulated way. But I try to live in hope, and there is always that chance Saint Timothy might do to Moles here in Kentucky what Saint Patrick did to Snakes in Ireland.
Any way, one thing led to another, he gave me a snoot full of feather dust when he hugged me, and long story short, the Angel of Greed now lives in the barn. And he has promised not to throw stones at swallows or tease Doodlebugs.