One day I came to work and found a baby angel in the warehouse. It sat quietly in an open stretch of concrete where the vans usually parked. It couldn’t walk or fly, and every time it flapped its wings, it listed to one side as if injured.
Some of my coworkers spared it a pitying glance, but everyone left it be. I wonder how long it had been there, exposed and alone on that wide stretch of empty space. The angel watched us with round, wary eyes and made futile attempts to move.
I couldn’t accept that the angel wasn’t worth saving. Eventually, I asked for a cardboard box. The custodian helped me gently coax the angel into it, and reminded me not to bring the angel back if it recovered, because there were too many angels in the warehouse already.
My coworkers, seeing me with it, began to take interest in the wounded angel. Will it survive, they asked? Who would nurse it back to health? Where will it go? Most wildlife rehabilitators wouldn’t accept angels; angels always congregate around human civilization, and rehabbers are more concerned with wilder creatures.
It was decided, by unanimous nonverbal agreement, that this angel was my responsibility now. During my shift, I sent a few frantic texts: to my mom, to a friend, and to the only angel expert I knew of.
My friend said: “Here are some places that might take the angel; you can call and see.”
The angel expert said: “The angel’s leg is injured, but its wings are fine. See how it uses one wing as a crutch? Keep it in the box until you can take it to a professional. Give it some food and water. You can keep it in the bathroom where the cat can’t reach it.”
My mom said: “I found a place that will take the angel. I can pick it up after you’re done with work and take it there.”
After my shift, I retrieved the cardboard box, lifting it carefully so as not to jostle its occupant. The baby angel struck out with its wings, in fear or protest. I whispered to it: “Be not afraid.” We parted ways on the sidewalk, the box exchanging hands, tucked into the foot space of the passenger’s seat of the car.
A text came a couple days later saying that the angel was okay, that it could already walk again and would make a full recovery.
All my life, I’ve been enamored by angels. The patterns of their wings, their gentle voices, their curious eyes. Their persistence in surviving, even when society cast them aside. With angels looking down on me from roofs and fences and power lines, I always felt less alone.
And I used to wonder: if I spoke of them by a different name, would people remember that pigeons were once called holy?
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