In Memory of Tina Turner

The angel was in rough shape; beaten, burnt, its feathers torn out on one side, it slumped against the fencing leading up to the main gate. The soul bent down. "Let's get you up," it said. "Lean on me." The angel attempted to protest, but the soul shushed it. "We are connected," it reminded the angel. "If you suffer, I suffer, and I have suffered plenty. Let's go." Limping to the main gate, Peter tried to start a conversation, but the soul waved him off. "What do you like?" it asked the angel. "What's a couple of your favorite things? Just don't say "harps", though ..." The angel laughed, then flinched in pain. "Nature," it responded. "Stillness. Music." "These things - the things that you love, well, they're vital to your existence, so ... why don't you get yourself seen to and I'll meet you over there afterwards," the soul whispered, pointing to a a large flat rock that looked out upon perpetual dawn breaking. "We'll get our prayers and mantras on." "I will," the angel responded gratefully. "I'll come right back here." "I'll be waiting AND, when it's time to relearn how to strut your stuff, I'll give you some high heels and a crash course." The angel laughed and winced again, nodded, and looked back at the soul while it moved away. "Nothing can take your love and light away, nor all of the serenity you've earned protecting it," the soul said. "Nothing."