Summer's cloudy eyes can't make out much these days. The faces of her favorite soap opera stars blur on the screen. The framed snapshots of her late wife Amelia dissolve into black-and-white smudges on the nightstand beside Summer's hospice bed. Even her live-in nurse is undefinable now, lovely Meg hummingbirding around the house like a hazy soft-spoken shadow. But that golden-haired somebody in the funny white feathered coat sitting vigil by Summer's side day and night? Summer sees them crystal clear, there, reclining in her cherished rocking chair. Kinship settling in quick, goosepimpling her skin, as recollections of cosmic benevolence alight in her dusky mind.

That plum seed dislodged from her throat before she could choke. The phantom kiss upon her lips, filling her struggling lungs with breath as she swam free of a riptide's grip in the cold Atlantic sea. A wall of wildfire holding steady outside her home, long enough for Summer to rescue every last photograph of her and Amelia's wedding day. All those car crashes Summer walked away from with nothing more than a scratch.

Starry halo slightly askew upon their flaxen head, pearly grin, loving eyes — Summer's angel, unseen and unheard for ninety-eight years. Great wings tattered but unwearied, hustling for their girl. Sent forth from heaven's glossy gates, to keep safe Summer, cradle to grave.

When Summer goes, she goes out giggling. Marathoning the melodrama of her most-watched soap with her guardian by her side. Savoring a slice of cantaloupe à la mode, the melony vanillaness melting on her tongue, fed to her with a silver spoon held tenderly by angelic hands. A whisper in her good ear, as the celestial messenger bestows her joyful tidings — that dear Amelia will be waiting for Summer when she is ready.

Summer's angel, keeping their best girl smiling bright until the very end. Describing all the scheming and romancing of the thespians on the television, divulging the seraphic secrets of who will and won't impress Saint Peter, who will and won't get in.