“I thought of the stone angel. I pictured the snow falling over it, two classes of snow rising on the top of its wings. So silent, the both of them, the angel and the snow. I pretended I was the stone angel. I close my eyes and pretended as hard as I could, and after a while I was convinced I could feel wings sprouting from my shoulders. I wanted to look, to see my wings, but I was an angel stone, so I could not move.”

“On our garden walks Mama always used to tell me, 'Angels live in gardens, Darcy.' 'Where?' I would ask, looking around for the white-winged beings I saw drawn on my Sunday school papers. 'Close your eyes and breathe deep.''All is smell is flowers, Mama,' I would say.'Not so. That's the breath of the angels. And the stirrings you hear in the leaves are their wings brushing past.”

“But you see, I am in a similar situation. I do not control the little devil sitting on my left shoulder. The devil is saying, "PRINT THE PICTURE PRINT THE PICTURE TAPE IT UP ALL OVER SCHOOL DO IT DO IT DO IT." And then on my right shoulder, there is a little tiny white angel. And the angel is saying, "Man, I sure as **** hope all those freshmen get their money bright and early on Monday morning."So do I, little angel. So do I.”

“I could never forget your voice. You sound like an angel who’s gotten her wings dirty.”

“If I am an angel, paint me with black wings.”

“I dream of flight, not to be as the angels are, but to rise above the smallness of it all. The smallnesss that I am. Against the daily death the iconography of wings.”