Performed by Val Cole

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Bean Point Requiem

For Abhigyan Patel

I stand waist deep, bobbing in the undulation, half blinded by the sun.
Royal terns glide swiftly by – blurs of white against a background of lapis lazuli.

They shriek, as if possessed. Further out, a rescue boat returns, slowly.
White wings in flight bathe in wind and sunlight. The angels sing that all will be right.

White wings in flight carry sharp eyes, squinting, seeking glints of silver light amid the green turbulence below.

These are angels of death, clad in deceit, not honest gray like the ugly birds that feed only on decay. Effortlessly they swim in the wind, soaring past, then circling back.

These graceful foils, one-by-one, spread fully and float, and then suddenly
drop – pluck – ascend:

still white, almost dry, but fed.

Drop – pluck – ascend:

a small soul has been removed from the bay's edge at the point where the waters meet.

The waters this morning are turgid from the rain that came overnight. This gives the angels cover to dive and pluck souls at will, first one, then another, then another.

Drop – pluck – ascend.

The rest of the school won't remember. This is a gift that saves them from living in terror of the diving diviners, and of guessing the guesses after the losses.

Why him from among many? Why him? He was too young. He was too loved.

The currents also pluck.

And we remember. And we guess. And we question.

We don't live in terror.

We live in hope, because we think we hear the singing of angels.