The Sins of Sylvia

I, Sylvia, was just waking up from a pleasant dream. In it, I was again a young mother. My two-year-old, little Mike (bright, vivacious and an early riser) had just poured ketchup on his daddy’s briefcase, apparently so his dad would stay home from work to play with him.

Suddenly, an almost unbearably bright light appeared on my bedroom wall opposite me; soon it swallowed up the whole wall.
I was jolted to a sitting position, clutching my red satin sheets to my lacey negligee.

A being stepped out of the light, toned down the glow, and sat at the foot of my bed.

“Nice place you’ve got here. Big, aesthetic—furniture and antiques right out of a glossy magazine,” he said.
“It’s lonely,” I murmured. “Who are you?”

“I’m an angel---aren’t the wings a dead giveaway? Archangel Michael, in fact---the Boss Angel,” he said.
“Am I going to die?”
“Eventually. As to when, I have no idea. That’s on a need to know basis.”

“I’ve never murdered anyone, nor robbed a bank. I’ve been a good mother, raised three beautiful children…”

The being, rather the Angel, cleared his throat.

“Your daughter is an alcoholic nude model, your son a heartless and greedy corporate executive who only calls you on holidays. Your other son disappeared into the drug culture…”

“You can’t tell kids what to do these days!” I interrupted.

“…you’ve had three husbands and three or four boyfriends who give you diamond earrings.”

“I didn’t ask for the divorces. I give to some charities—I’ve got my own future to think about, you know. I go to church, well sometimes, if my friend wants to go,”

Pause.

“What do you want,” I said, regaining some of my famous poise.
“Simple. I want you to surrender control of your like to me for just 24 hours. I promise you,, you won’t regret it.”

He must have taken my hesitation for assent, for the very next thing I knew I was in some other world, looking down on a scene of unimaginable horror. Hundreds, thousands or more, suffering people, crying out in heart-rending pain, despair and agony. We zoomed in, and I could see the excruciating pain on their faces, as the surrounding flames rose higher.

Then we were back in my bedroom.

“Was that Hell?” I asked, trembling, feeling it was a silly question.
“Oh, no, Michael said, “That’s Purgatory. Hell is thousands of times worst.”

Before I could take a deep breath, I was whisked away again. This time I was on a beautiful tropical beach, with palm trees and miles of white sand. Along the shore ran dozens of happy kids, laughing and playing. Their mothers watched from the distance, chatting and nursing infants. But something was very wrong. The kids were naked, their bellies hugely bloated and distended from hunger,

Then I was hit by a blast of thick, wind-driven snow. I saw a crowd of shivering people---men, women, and children---waiting in line in front of a sign that said “Food bank.” A soggy newspaper blew up against my feet. The headline read: “Unemployment Reaches Record High.”

I hoped the nightmare was over. After all, doesn’t time pass differently in Michael’s world?

But the worst was yet to come.

I was standing in front of my local supermarket, staring my reflection in the plate glass window. It was me, and yet it wasn’t. Gone was my carefully coifed weekly hairdo of red curls, from the ritziest salon in town. My hair was dirty, matted and unkempt, and it itched unbearably. I was dressed in some drab, wrinkled clothes, with worn-out flat shoes on my aching feet. I was holding a sign that said: “Homeless. Please Help.”

I was feeling faint, and slid down to a sitting position on the hot, hard concrete. I saw busy suburban homemakers push their carts full of steaks and wine to their brand new station wagons, kids trailing behind. I saw men carrying roses for their sweethearts. I felt invisible, no one even bothered to look at me. The few who did had frowns of pity on their faces. I saw Vera, with whom I served with on the fund raising committee for the Arts Museum. She caught my eye for a brief second, and then turned away.

I was beginning to feel really sick. I felt like I was trapped here for all eternity. Then a teenager who worked in the fast food restaurant across the way approached me. With a shy smile, he offered me a large cup of ice water. Plain H2o never tasted so good.

Then I felt still another change. Now it was a dark, smoggy midnight. I was on the roof top of a high building, looking down into the littered alley below. Several shadowy figures with guns were setting up an ambush.
From an unmarked metal door in the middle, a man emerged. A sudden flash of lightening revealed—it was my son, Mike!

Shots rang out!

“No!” I screamed! “Not my son! Take me instead! Michael, angel, whoever and wherever you are...GET ME OUT OF HERE! NOW!”

I was in my own living room, fully dressed. The angel was nowhere to be seen. I needed a drink. Before I could move, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door. There stood a rumpled, sobbing child. He looked exactly like…Before I had time to react, he threw himself into my arms and cried:

“Grandma!”

end