The door is red and arched surrounded by a low stone wall covered in creeping vines and ferns. There is a wrought iron handle that needs to be pulled and turned to open the door. Above the door is my name in an old-fashioned script.
I am standing on a stone path, in warm sunlight and green fields stretch behind me and beside me. When I open the door, it opens inwards and I have to bend my head to get through the space.
Inside the path continues, covered in dappled sunshine shining through the leaves overhead. It is a steamy moist rainforest. I can hear the sound of whipbirds and the air tastes salty on my lips.
I am wearing a long flowing grey dress with bell-shaped sleeves and a ragged train. My breasts are only covered loosely and my waist is small. I don’t notice my thighs rubbing together as I walk. My feet are bare, feeling the coolness of the stones beneath my feet. My grey hair is long and wavy, reaching down my back and I wear a garland of pink and yellow flowers on my head.
Sitting on a marble bench is the archangel Michael. He is leaning forward with his head in his hands. I think for a moment he is upset, but he must be just waiting for me because when he soon looks up and smiles and stands in an old-fashioned gesture of good manners.
He sweeps his hand down my back, and where he touches me, wings unfold from my shoulder blades. They are huge wings, as big as his, reaching six-foot into the air. I am nervous and anxious, I’ve never flown before.
He takes me by the hand and we launch into the sky together. Below me I can see the landscape of fields, forests and the ocean. It reminds me of Narnia, or the Narnia I’ve constructed in my imagination.
Michael holds my hand and never lets go. He’s done this before and he won’t let me fall. It’s always difficult to do something the first time, but it doesn’t take long to get used to it.
The end comes too quickly, I want to fly with Michael all day. Up here there is peace and joy, a feeling of being part of the wind, brushing up against the birds. The problems of the world are far away, tiny, like insignificant spots on a perfect painting. I don’t want to go back, it’s better up here.