Genevieve Pearson

“He was an Angel.  He walked in Grace.  When you meet one—and I’m sure someday you will—you’ll know it, too.  When he told me, it was, just, well, giving voice to something I already knew on a level.” “And how did you know for sure?”  I asked. “Did you see his halo?” “Do you want to cut down on the snark?   I’m your mother.  Given the events of the last two days, I’d think you’d be more inclined to take my word for it.” She had me there. “Besides, he did show me his—ah—true self.” “Is that a euphemism for penis?  Please let it not be a euphemism for penis.  You are talking about my dad.” “No, it’s not a euphemism.  I mean he showed me his Angel form.”

“So what were you doing there?”  Here’s the frustrating thing about Nate, one of those things that happy memories conveniently glossed over.  A lot of times, you had to ask him a question more than once to get a straight answer.  He loved to answer questions you’d never asked, or to answer a question with another question.   “Do I really have to answer that, Kyrie?” See? “Don’t you trust me?”  See?!”

“Carrie? Hello?” “Keer-ee-eh,” I said, emphasizing the middle vowel.  Normally, I don’t care if people mispronounce my name, unusual as it is, but I was annoyed at the distraction. “Like the song?” Turning, I leveled a glare at my interrupter.  Not very good of me, customer-service wise, but I was not feeling myself. “Yes, I was named after the pop song,” I said. “Exactly.” “Why would your mom do that?” Because when you’re eighteen and pregnant and unmarried and homeless and that song comes on the radio, it holds a lot of spiritual and emotional meaning to your immature and overwhelmed little self.  But I didn’t say that.  Instead I shrugged. “Lots of parents name their kids after songs.”