Sex, Death and Angels

Yeah. You heard it right. Those 3 words came to me as I sat for my morning meditation. I had thrown out the thought that my next book needed to be sexy. Sexy in the sense of selling well because it grabbed people by the short hairs and wouldn’t let go.

Mind you, I haven’t had sex in over a decade. It was about the time that my husband’s body inconveniently fell away. (Grin.) Dammit. I coulda used it a while longer. Now I am the old widow woman grousing about her single state. A prune of a person facing extinction. Wait a minute. That ain’t right! (My ego says, “Straighten out the record.” You are beautiful, you are powerful, you are enlightened.)

Death takes away sex. Maybe you figured this out. Most people are way ahead of me. What you are left with is this sea of sorrow. But I have crossed this sea twice and am now standing on the shore. (Extra points on my halo for that, hopefully.)

Bob called me Angel. He addressed his birthday cards, etc. to me as “Angel.” Once he had it written on my birthday cake as “Angle.” The icer got fired. Not really. I just made that up.But the cake really said “Angle,” which was not Bob’s intention.

Bob got lots of things wrong, being an engineer instead of an English major like me. He said things like, “I got down on my hands and knees and asked Vicki to marry me.” A pathetic image that and one that was entirely wrong.

This, as you may have guessed, is a silly essay. I, as an old widow woman, am free to take liberties and I —when I have taken all of them–I will take other far more dangerous things.

Now for the angels part of the essay. Angels are all around me but I can’t see ‘em. People tell me they sense them and sometimes even see them. I have a huge Angel Protection Agency. Bob is probably running it. Who knows?

Sex, death and angels are actually a powerful trio. Don’t mess with ‘em. Everyone has sex if they are lucky. Everyone dies and everyone has angels all around them.

Now put this in your pipe and smoke it because I have to come up with an even sexier title for the next essay I write. I am not on Facebook much, for good reasons. I have been told to die to that self and rise into who I really am. So disregard this essay. Or maybe giggle first.

Vicki Woodyard