Soon it will be dawn, and I wait up here with a heavy heart. I am shorter than the others. My hair isn’t golden like theirs, but black and scratchy as steel wool. My wings look like wet fur. Even my gown needs pressing. It’s hard to be a Jewish angel.
Years ago, when I arrived, new from the factory, the day before Christmas, I thought that my heart would burst. Imagine: tomorrow the Messiah would be born; the world would be transformed; no more suffering, good will toward men for ever and ever, as my heavenly colleagues had announced. But night came, and morning came, and it was the same old world. Every Christmas: it was the same old world.
So I wait here, out of my element it seems, with the tinsel, the lights, and all the other, happy, unthinking ornaments. My wings are folded behind me. A tear, permanent, hangs from the corner of my eye, like a tiny almond.