I could not resist. I had to return to What I Love about Berlin #2 and dole out 25 Euro for a shiny (tiny) happy (wooden) person of my own.
Engel-Rot is her name, made by a company the storekeeper calls the "Mercedez Benz of wood-carving." Figures I'd go for her. There are three face-painters, one whose faces radiate something nearly human. We decided she surely must have painted this one.
Engel-Rot called to me. Let's be clear, when I hear "angel," I think rainbows, unicorns, and fourth-grade girls wearing lavender. When I was in fourth-grade, I worshipped Koko, the sign-language-speaking gorilla. I wrote her a poem and she sent me back an autographed poster. Yesterday I could have bought the monkey-with-baby on a string. Tug the bead at the bottom and the pair clambered upward. Guess things change.
A year ago, the angels weighed in on my life. They spoke through a small bearded man from Ohio. He sported running shoes and a bald pate. The angels told him the surgery was the right thing for me to do. They told him I would make a full recovery. I liked what they had to say. Ever since, I have continued not to believe in them and have wanted them around nonetheless.
Ernie and the Madonna (natch) have embraced Engel-Rot whole-heartedly. The Little Prince remains wary; he knows how long it takes to tame a friend. Yoda is too old to care. And my hard-core atheist grandmother? Let's not even go there.
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