A note concerning angels

The angel in the dirty T-shirt waited. Neither the light drizzle nor the gazes of the mourners fell upon him. The service was brief and somewhat cookie cutter as far as such things went. As the mourners dispersed and filtered past, the angel deftly plucked a very poisonous and highly agitated spider from the collar of a young boy. He set the spider down on a tree limb and it bit him for his trouble. The angel walked over to the casket and pulled a white carnation from a wreath. With an easy motion he levered the coffin open with one hand, then stooped to peer inside. Mary blinked at him, realized he was offering a hand up, and took it out of habit. The angel clapped a warm hand to her shoulder. She looked from the angel to her body lying in state and back. Confusion wrinkled her features and the beginning of a question parted her lips. The angel smiled with his eyes and his mouth, an expression more genuine than any Mary could remember, gently laid a finer across her lips, and offered her the flower. She took it, inhaled deeply, and felt much better. The angel in the dirty T-shirt offered his arm, which she took, and the two walked off together, arms interlocked. The coffin clicked shut.