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Flights of Angels
Sometimes he would wonder how things like this happened. Bright sunny days with a snow covered ground. The air, still and happy. Everyone, arms wrapped around themselves against the warm cold. Except River, that is. River, her eyes sparkling like the snow, running around barefoot. Falling onto her back and making a snow angel. Her thin dress wet and clinging to her back when she got up.
“Simon,” pointing proudly.
He smiled, happy that she was happy; the doctor not wanting her to be out barefoot with no jacket; the man unable to deny her this fleeting wonder.
“Simon!” More demanding this time. She fell back onto the snow again, beckoning for him to come to her. Snow filling his low-cut shoes, he dropped down beside her and together, they made more angels. Shivering now, she stood. With his head on the ground, Simon could see her feet purple with cold. Standing next to her, he took hold of her hand.
“Come on, Mei-Mei.”
“A flight of angels, Simon. Flights of angels to sing me to my rest.”
He pretended that that didn’t worry him. “Let’s go inside now, you’re cold. We’ll get you some tea.”
“Then can we come back?”
“Of course.”
“Black hole.” A small shake of her head. “I’m cold.”
“I know, come inside.”
“Cold and white and glass on the floor and black holes.” She was shaking now, not shivering with cold, but shaking in fear.
“Hush Mei-Mei, it’s okay.” He scooped her up into his arms and carried her back to the ship. Her hands were tucked under his shirt and she was mumbling over and over, “black hole,” shaking.
She didn’t want to go back out that day. The glass on the ground would cut her feet, she said, and she wouldn’t let Simon go out either.
“They’ll all cut and bleed and River’s blood will be on the snow and you have to be here to fix them.”
“You aren’t going to bleed, Mei-Mei.”
“I know. I’m inside. They,” she pointed out the window toward the others, “aren’t.”
He pretended that that didn't worry him.
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