I grew up in a small town. Population: 2000. It wasn't "The Corners," but it was small enough for people to know your name, your business, all the bad laundry hanging out on the line.

One day, as my mother was beating the living shit out of me, everyone ignoring it per usual, a knock fell on the front door, screen so scant it barely contained the flies. My mom told me to stay put, and I did, but I managed to hear the old man's voice. Caught a glimpse through the brown slat shutters of my bedroom window. Eighty if he was a day. Gaunt, tired, bald but for a few wisps of white.

Never seen him before, never seen him since.

When my mother came back to me... the memory of her deeds forgotten in the bloodless color of her face, I ask her what he wanted. "He asked for a glass of water." Mother, raised in Catholic schools, then went on to confess that as he handed the emptied glass to her, he said, "Pax vo biscum." Peace be with you. A gentle, but possibly preemptory farewell.

I don't always believe in much, but sometimes... I believe in angels.